Tag Archives: dudes

Pizza Entitlement

If you have to make fun of a class of people, please make sure you’re right about every single one of them.

As an example, let’s take a look at a recent incident in which, on a popular social media platform, an individual derided those who had never ordered a pizza… He commented something along the lines of that he couldn’t believe an actual adult human had never picked up a phone and ordered delivery… because obviously not having ever ordered pizza is the lament of the social pariah.

Okay, folks. As you may have already guessed, I have never ordered a pizza. I may have eaten pizza, but it did not arrive in my mouth due to my ordering of it from a restaurant. My reasons are threefold:

  • I was allergic to milk (and therefore, cheese) until I was 24 years old. (I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in…) Therefore, I would have had no reason to order a pizza for well over half my life, but even so…
  • I suffered a traumatic room service incident when I was 23. I was on my first honeymoon (shut up), and I wanted to order the conch chowder. That was all well and good, but as soon as the order-taking person answered the phone, I realized that I didn’t know how to pronounce the word conch. What was I to do? Should I say I want the chowder, and hope they realize I don’t want the clam chowder? Do I cough as I’m trying to say the word, and hope they say the word, and I can just say, “yeah, that’s it”? Nope. I hung up the phone and told my ex that he’d better order me my soup and a few more bottles of the resort-standard champagne. Which brings me to my next point…
  • Boys are supposed to order the pizza. And the wine. And the everything. To be clear, I’m not a feminist. I’m a strong, iron-willed woman. I’ve been fiercely independent and self-reliant for most of my adult life. However, I need to be with a man who is strong enough and who knows me well enough to tell me what I want and who also has the wherewithal to give it to me. And that includes ordering the damn pizza. Just as long as it’s not (yuck) pepperoni.

Does this make sense? No. Should I be able to order a pizza? Yes.* What am I scared of, really? Okay, what if they ask me what kind of cheese I want on the pizza? I mean, what am I supposed to say? Pizza cheese… normal pizza cheese? What the hell is pizza cheese? What if they ask about what kind of sausage I want? I don’t know. The good kind? WHAT IF THEY ASK IF I WANT THE BLACK OLIVES ON THE RIGHT HALF OR THE LEFT HALF OF THE PIZZA? HOW IS THIS SUPPOSED TO GO?

In conclusion, and I’m not ashamed to admit it… I probably could order a pizza, but my silly, entitled ass feels like I shouldn’t have to do it myself.

* Disclaimer:  I can “order” a pizza at Little Caesar’s by grunting and pointing at a box right behind Randy’s** head.

** All Little Caesar’s employees are named Randy.

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In Defense of Yoga Moms

If you have to write a blog post with the above title, you should probably have something nice to say about yoga moms… but fuck that.

Yoga moms piss me off.

These women don’t work, they don’t do anything for themselves, and THEY DON’T ACTUALLY DO YOGA. These bitches mooch off of their hard-working husbands to support their lives of leisure and… wait. What do they actually do? They drink champagne at 11 AM, they go out with the other yoga moms, and they bag on women like me who actually contribute to society. They hire people to clean their houses and watch their children for them, they’re addicted to whatever pill that is in the amber-colored bottle, and (sorry, hard-working husbands) they’re sleeping with the “life coach” guy who lives three houses down. They put on yoga pants in the morning, they hit the salon, and then they overperfume themselves before heading out for a tough day of shopping and sitting on the patio at the bistro with some other stupid yoga bitches. Oh yeah, and then they bang Sven or Marco (or whatever his name is) before their kids get home from school.

These ladies are the worst, but tbh, their husbands aren’t that much better. Did they really go into marriage hoping to just have a trophy wife? And what about the fugly yoga moms… did these guys REALLY sign up for paying for some ugly bitch to just sit around (and I mean arouuuund) the house that they bought for her? Why? WHY? Why do they let their wives spend $90 on mascara, rack up 10 hours at the spa every week, pay $300 for a haircut, and watch all the soap operas? What are they getting out of it? Maybe it’s some crazy sex move known only to yoga moms. (Maybe THAT’S what they’re learning from that “life coach” guy!)

I’d venture to guess that maybe–just MAYBE–women who have an education and a job and actually pull their own weight probably have a little more to offer than those awful, horrible, throatpunchable yoga moms.