I don’t feel bad for very many people. In fact there is only one person in the world right now I feel bad for. I saw him a few minutes ago.
This man is anywhere from 60 to 4,893,081-years-old. Chances are he is closer to the lower end. He is a pizza delivery guy that works at the Dominoes down the street from me. Or is it Dominos. I think it’s the second one. Dominoes would be what we would call if the Keira Knightley character Domino was cloned. And if she were to be cloned she would get played with by Puerto Rican men all day long.
I feel bad for this ancient pizza delivery man because he looks miserable. This isn’t some job he has to get out and meet people. He’s busting his ass delivering food to teenagers too high on the marijuana to safely cook something themselves. They probably tip him bad. I think we have all been around friends who insist on not tipping. The odd thing is most people that are bad tippers have shitty jobs their entire lives so it comes back to haunt them like my grandfather does me.
I cry pepperoni tears for this man. The weather right now is really cold and his born in the 1940s bones are probably aching. Just because this man probably committed some awful war atrocities in Southeast Asia does not mean he should have to live out the end of his life suffering with a job he clearly hates. It’s not his fault his hands and face are too gross to actually touch the pizza. We should blame God for that.
Sadly the only thing I can do to help him is pray for his death. Maybe in an attempt to get the pizza somewhere in 30 minutes or less he will get hit by a tractor-trailer and crushed between two large sheets of steel. I imagine the joy on his face when the police show up and admit to him that once the truck and his delivery car are separated, his guts will spill out from his waist and kill him. This is the best option for this poor old man.