13 June, 2008
So, I was working hard one day at my desk when I had a sudden urge to consume
something that was quick, fast, and damaging to my overall health. Remembering
the days as a child where fast food was such a delight, I quickly scrambled to
find a telephone number of some fixed protein conglomerate that could deliver.
I reached the cordless phone and in about three or four rings later, to my
delight, an operator picked up and asked for my street address.
It's not hard to find me: I'm down the road from a pizza establishment.
"Is it (your address) in Bolton," the female voice sensually asked. Bolton?
That's several miles away from where I was.
I then gave my postal code to her when she gave me some advice that made my
liver ever happier: They can't deliver.
"You can't deliver?!?" I exclaimed. She then explained that I was quite a ways
away from any delivery area they serve.
I then hung up, frustratingly in silence. The smell of a "deep fried
something" permeated my mind and I was desperate for saturated fat.
Another phone number was pulled from my Yellow Pages directory, this time for
a pizzeria. They're known for fat topped and tossed in fat, stuffed with fat
in the sensually fatty crust.
The operator from this restaurant sent me to a local franchisee, who then
proclaimed that "he didn't deliver" and proceeded to send me to a franchisee
who did deliver. From that crosstown location, the third operator sent me back
to the main line, where another operator told me that no one delivers to my area!
I then realized that these calls led me absolutely nowhere. Who orders
delivery nowadays? In fact, the two chains I called are owned by the same
I gave up. I walked to the grocery store next door and fed my gastronomical
mandarins with home cooked food. My liver has never been so thankful.
Phillip Hong, a Woodbridge resident, is a an endless tourist. Check
out the interesting experiences of his journeys on The Travelling Briefcase.