Don’t you think he’s mysterious? The way he turns up at your door with his motorcycle helmet still on and mumbles incomprehensibly. Even though you’re pretty sure it’s pizza, you’re still concerned that maybe it’s an armed robbery.
Then the pizza delivery guy pulls an item out of the bag and hands it to you. The square box is unmistakable, it’s a pizza. Your heart flitters a little as the excitement builds.
But there’s more. His hand disappears into the special-pizza-man’s-bag again and out comes a box of garlic bread. Delicious. You know you ordered more, but you can’t remember what. His hand disappears once again into the great unknown. It’s a bottle of Fanta. You ordered Pepsi but never mind, Fanta is nice and you can’t expect everything in life to run smoothly.
He reaches, one final time, into the bag of magic. You hope for some complimentary chicken wings. And then he pulls it out —– a little piece of white receipt paper. “That’s 14.59”, he mumbles. Darn.
What does Santa Claus do for eleven months of the year? Maybe he is the pizza delivery guy. It’s perfect. He gets to make a little cash and gets to keep going door to door, checking everybody’s behavior. I wonder if figuring out whether children have been ‘good or bad’ stretches as far as their eating habits. Maybe it’s all a test. The more pizzas we eat, the less presents he brings us. Am I on to something here?
