|"Oops, did I do that? Oh my!" (Pic: CAPT258)|
It's not just their scanty, cardboard-based pizzas that offend all right-tasting palettes. It's the miserable atmosphere, the stingy dimensions of the serve-yourself salad bowls, and the understandably depressed demeanours of their under-motivated staff that make visiting Pizza Hut akin to a gastronomic wake. That anyone voluntarily walks into this chain and hands over their own cash in exchange for a series of culinary insults testifies to the rock-bottom discernment of your average western gut. Thank heavens, some of us are fighting back.
Our blue-rinse heroine should be given a public service award for literally trashing this anti-nutritional fodder stall of flavour disenfranchisement. Where a customer comment of 'Mediocre service' on the feedback form will win you Employee of the Month. Where a
meal classified as 'bland and instantly forgettable' is seen as a landmark achievement for the head chef and his partners at the laboratory for chemical colourings (Food and Other Industrial Services Division).
I imagine the aging driver's thought process went something like this as she drove down Lee Highway: "I'm 86 years old, and what is my legacy? How will people remember me? Yeah, sure, I knitted a lot of scarves and pullovers, but they'll unravel in the end. My apple pie always gets praise at Thanksgiving, but I know they're patronising me. What can I do? You know, something meaningful. Dang, look, there's a Pizza Hut. How I hate that goddamned place. Shitty food, shitty service. Heh heh, what if I just accidentally mistook my accelerator for the brake pedal. Ha ha ha, here we go, yeeeeeesssssss!!!!"
I've seen it happen before. An elderly lady drove her car off an overhanging wall, through a fence and on to the tennis courts at our neighbourhood swimming pool a couple of years back. They called it an accident, but you can bet she probably spotted on court that slut who was staring too long at the front of her husband's swimming shorts back in 1967 at the end-of-summer barbecue, so she put her foot down for some belated retribution. When you get to that age, what have you got to lose? If things start crashing down around you, then you just look all confused and say, "Oh mighty me, did I really do all that?"
Many people seem to fear old age, but I'm already looking forward to turning 86. In fact I'm ready now to start drawing up a preliminary list of potential locations for an unfortunate collision. Starbucks may one day come to regret all those piss-weak, over-priced lattes they've been serving my generation for the past ten years.