Phillip Hong
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 company.

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.