You asked us to crush it this quarter, really grind it out and bring home that proverbial bacon!
Oh and how we did! We hammered those phones, bullied those excel spreadsheets and beat that pavement like it slapped our high school girlfriends ass at prom.
That revenue line just broke through the ceiling into the upstairs bathroom.
You’re welcome.
After all we’re team players.
But instead of thanking us in a way that a cog in the wheel of the great “machine” would understand:
Ice – Cold.
Ron Jeremy – Hard.
Bundle of Benjamins – CASH.
You gave us a pizza.
Not even a few days of PTO.
Pizza.
It was delivered so its already luke warm, the cheese entering that no mans land of disappointment where its not even melty, just greasy.
Weak ass paper plates, generic 1 ply paper towel, pepperoni so limp it’s about to star in it’s own ED commercial.
Plus off brand cola with 5 oz cups, like I’m having a tea party in a Russian Gulag.
My wife is about to divorce me, my daughter calls me Steve, and I swear I saw my face on the back of a milk carton.
All this for… Pizza?
Bruh. You better dig deep and find some extra cash for a bonus instead of giving me this janky ass metaphorical middle finger gift wrapped by a pizza box.
The revolution wont be televised, but ya’ll are about to get a pizza of the back of my hand for this garbage.
Let me go find that baby powder, I’ll be up in 5.
-RC
And they’ll throw a whole pineapple at your face without even giving you the dignity to say yes or not first
Literally the only context in which pizza sucks.