Every Day is a Monday…

by Ed Sofield

…I find it amazing how the simplest things turn into life and death situations…

Surprise, surprise… things were looking up for me today. Being the week following a three day weekend (Memorial Day, something to do with WWII, John Wayne worshiping crazy old war heroes or something), coming back to work was for once no big deal-seeing as how I only had a few days before the next weekend began. And when I got to the office, things just got better.

Should’ve known right then and there…

Within the first ten minutes of the day, I learned that my whip-toting boss would be “unfortunately” absent from work-most likely something to do with flogging the gimp he keeps chained in his summerhouse in the Hamptons.

With the boss-man missing, the day just seemed to fly by. Before I know it, three o’clock had rolled up and I hadn’t eaten.

I made a simple decision and ordered a calzone from one of the local tourist-type Italian places. (By the way, the biggest advantage of living in this city in that you can get everything-drugs and hookers included-delivered with a smile. Well, delivered at any rate)

When the food arrived, I acted like the pig I am and immediately stuffed my face. From the first bite, however, I started to notice something: “hmmm… funny smell… why are there seeds on my pizza turnover?… calzones aren’t suppose to drip gray juice, right? Being that aforementioned pig, I ate half the damn thing before I realized it hadn’t been cooked for more than a minute in a room temperature oven… and sometime yesterday morning at that.

Now, just to explain, I’m normally not big on confrontations, but I’ll be damned to Tammy-Faye Baker hell before I lose six bucks to some tourist dollars Guliani-supported bread-and-cheese-in-a-box delivery service.

So I called, and, polite as can be, remarked that “your mother cooked better food for me after I screwed her on your kitchen floor.” The angry voice on the other end of the phone replied that he would “send another calzone – ASAP.

Take a wild-shot-in-the-dark guess…

Not only was the next meal undercooked, I have a sneaking suspicion that they gray bubbly thing inside was, in fact, a gigantic, phlegm-ball loogey spat into my food.

So I did what any strong, brave and confident freedom loving American would do after Memorial Day weekend; I stole my cash back from the delivery boy and ran away as fast as my feet could go.

So… what exactly is the moral of this jive-ass rant?

If you ever find yourself in midtown Manhattan, do not EVER eat at the Pizza Cave Restaurant on East 34th Street, between Park and Lexington Avenues. Or, maybe go there and picket the storefront. You know, scare away innocent would-be customers.

And if you see the owner around, punch him in the nose for me.

Editors comments:

While this most recent edition of Wednesday Again may prove to be the red headed stepchild of Ink 19 family. Aside from the catastrophic spelling errors, it has been left in its original form to protect its artistic integrity and that of the Creator. The slander and liable in the article is more incriminating than a dead hooker, and therefore, like all of Mr. Sofield’s works is not the opinion of Ink 19, it’s advertisers, sponsors, affiliates, janitors, or me.

This piece of literature has been edited by Ghetto Fabulous.