You Eat With A Mouth Like That? − 1 January, 1984
"Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in. Aim at earth and you get neither."
C.S. Lewis
"Aim at the pizza guy and your snowball will surely find its mark."
S.P. Stewart
It was a chilly afternoon that found Q and I slogging across the campus of Gardner-Webb College on the way back to our dorm. "Slogging" is probably a bit of an exaggeration since the six inches of snow which hampered our progress would be hardly noteworthy anywhere except south of the Mason-Dixon line. Nonetheless, we were returning from the campus quad, where we had been rolling king-sized snowballs for no other reason than the materials were there and we were bored.
Turning down the sidewalk leading to our residence hall, we spied a Domino's Pizza delivery guy trudging towards the freshman girls' dorm; a hot case full of pies held firmly in his hands. It was a common enough sight. Even though the "town" of Boiling Springs couldn't draw the customers to keep a pizza joint open, the Domino's outlet in nearby Shelby was more than happy to deliver to our remote outpost of higher education. Uncommon, however, was the action I took in response to a man simply trying to bring Hot Crusty Goodness to the masses.
I can't say for sure which of us came up with the idea to fling a snowy projectile in the vicinity of Mr. Pizza, but I do know who "did the deed". As I packed the snowball to a firm, but not ice-hard, consistency, I suspected that nothing good would come of the effort, just as I knew that the weapon would come nowhere near the target. Certainly not at the distance we were from the victim; some 20-odd yards away.
You see, when it came to the kind of things that guys were supposed to be good at - throwing footballs in a perfect spiral, rattling off batting averages for the 1968 Mets, tying a Double Windsor without asphyxiating oneself in the process - I had more in common with Mr. Bean than Barry Bonds. Never really developed a strong interest in most sports as a result, but I digress. At any rate, this snowball should never in a million years have taken the path it did....right into one of the gloved hands keeping the box of pizzas steady. Following the icy impact, there was a valiant effort expended on the part of Mr. Pizza to keep his precious cargo intact.
Didn't work.
Instead, the hot box cut a somersault worthy of an Olympic diver and came to rest upside down in the snow. Rather than take a positive step towards customer service, Mr. Pizza turned his attention away from the thermally compromised comestibles and towards the two figures fleeing to the safety of the tall bushes which encircled the A.T. Withrow Science building.
Now I can think of a lot of language that would be appropriate for just such an occasion. To wit, a number of four letter words come to mind. So why bring someone's dear mother into the fray? Well, that's just what Mr. Pizza decided to do. Right there in the middle of that bastion of Baptist thought...
"YOUR MOTHER'S A WHORE!!!!"
What??? Peals of laughter erupted from the shrubbery in response to his choice of verbiage. My mother's a whore??? Mrs. Stewart was many things: loving mother, devoted wife, Doctor Who fan, but "lady of the evening" never made the list. If she had been there, it's quite likely that she would have introduced Mr. Pizza to the taste of Ivory Soap....after chasing me around the campus with a switch just for starting the whole thing.
The crude comments were not lost on the President of the Student Government Association, who just happened to be crossing the campus at that particular moment. As we watched from our leafy encampment, we could hear bits and pieces of the exchange which followed:
Pres: Look. We don't need that kind of language upon this campus.
Mr. Pizza: Did you see 'em??? They ran over there (pointing to the bushes). Hit me with a damn snowball!
For a brief moment it appeared that there would be a Pres vs. Pizza display of fisticuffs, which didn't bother us one bit. After all, the Pres was a member of the "beautiful people" clique. If he had to eat snow with a bit of frozen pepperoni, then all was well.
As tempers began to cool down, the focus shifted to our position. The enemy combatants began their approach while we slithered through the bushes until we reached the side of the building. From there it was just a quick sprint into the upperclassmen's dorm where we waited for the threat level to drop to "Elevated" status. Finally, with the threat of WFDs (Weirdly Flying Pizzas) and foul language behind us, we resumed our journey home.
C.S. Lewis
"Aim at the pizza guy and your snowball will surely find its mark."
S.P. Stewart
It was a chilly afternoon that found Q and I slogging across the campus of Gardner-Webb College on the way back to our dorm. "Slogging" is probably a bit of an exaggeration since the six inches of snow which hampered our progress would be hardly noteworthy anywhere except south of the Mason-Dixon line. Nonetheless, we were returning from the campus quad, where we had been rolling king-sized snowballs for no other reason than the materials were there and we were bored.
Turning down the sidewalk leading to our residence hall, we spied a Domino's Pizza delivery guy trudging towards the freshman girls' dorm; a hot case full of pies held firmly in his hands. It was a common enough sight. Even though the "town" of Boiling Springs couldn't draw the customers to keep a pizza joint open, the Domino's outlet in nearby Shelby was more than happy to deliver to our remote outpost of higher education. Uncommon, however, was the action I took in response to a man simply trying to bring Hot Crusty Goodness to the masses.
I can't say for sure which of us came up with the idea to fling a snowy projectile in the vicinity of Mr. Pizza, but I do know who "did the deed". As I packed the snowball to a firm, but not ice-hard, consistency, I suspected that nothing good would come of the effort, just as I knew that the weapon would come nowhere near the target. Certainly not at the distance we were from the victim; some 20-odd yards away.
You see, when it came to the kind of things that guys were supposed to be good at - throwing footballs in a perfect spiral, rattling off batting averages for the 1968 Mets, tying a Double Windsor without asphyxiating oneself in the process - I had more in common with Mr. Bean than Barry Bonds. Never really developed a strong interest in most sports as a result, but I digress. At any rate, this snowball should never in a million years have taken the path it did....right into one of the gloved hands keeping the box of pizzas steady. Following the icy impact, there was a valiant effort expended on the part of Mr. Pizza to keep his precious cargo intact.
Didn't work.
Instead, the hot box cut a somersault worthy of an Olympic diver and came to rest upside down in the snow. Rather than take a positive step towards customer service, Mr. Pizza turned his attention away from the thermally compromised comestibles and towards the two figures fleeing to the safety of the tall bushes which encircled the A.T. Withrow Science building.
Now I can think of a lot of language that would be appropriate for just such an occasion. To wit, a number of four letter words come to mind. So why bring someone's dear mother into the fray? Well, that's just what Mr. Pizza decided to do. Right there in the middle of that bastion of Baptist thought...
"YOUR MOTHER'S A WHORE!!!!"
What??? Peals of laughter erupted from the shrubbery in response to his choice of verbiage. My mother's a whore??? Mrs. Stewart was many things: loving mother, devoted wife, Doctor Who fan, but "lady of the evening" never made the list. If she had been there, it's quite likely that she would have introduced Mr. Pizza to the taste of Ivory Soap....after chasing me around the campus with a switch just for starting the whole thing.
The crude comments were not lost on the President of the Student Government Association, who just happened to be crossing the campus at that particular moment. As we watched from our leafy encampment, we could hear bits and pieces of the exchange which followed:
Pres: Look. We don't need that kind of language upon this campus.
Mr. Pizza: Did you see 'em??? They ran over there (pointing to the bushes). Hit me with a damn snowball!
For a brief moment it appeared that there would be a Pres vs. Pizza display of fisticuffs, which didn't bother us one bit. After all, the Pres was a member of the "beautiful people" clique. If he had to eat snow with a bit of frozen pepperoni, then all was well.
As tempers began to cool down, the focus shifted to our position. The enemy combatants began their approach while we slithered through the bushes until we reached the side of the building. From there it was just a quick sprint into the upperclassmen's dorm where we waited for the threat level to drop to "Elevated" status. Finally, with the threat of WFDs (Weirdly Flying Pizzas) and foul language behind us, we resumed our journey home.
