Trevor Strnad’s Deadspeak: Pepperoni Pentagram

By  | 

Trevor Strnad's Deadspeak

Trevor Strnad’s Deadspeak

Gun Shy Assassin is proud to announce that Black Dahlia Murder frontman Trevor Strnad has joined the team as a regular columnist. His words will appear here whenever the mood strikes him, which it did this week with this ode to the backbone of the multi-billion dollar pizza industry; here is the resultant first installment in Trevor’s column, Deadspeak

This is for all the metalhead pizza men. All the dudes carrying their drummer’s cymbals to house shows in red leather pizza bags. To the dudes who smoke weed while looking for 3254 Fern Street with a million-candle rechargeable spotlight. To the guys who eat toppings off of pizzas (from the most discrete places near the crust, of course) whilst driving to your domicile where you are probably playing Wii Bowling in a track suit with your grandkids (who eat too much pizza). We busted our asses for you and all we get is a fake smile, an awkward question about our tattoos…and a measly tip of thirty five fucking cents.

This is for all of the bosses out there who are cool and give their starry-eyed young employees time off to waste their hard-earned money paying for their own ill-fated tours in the backs of maple colored 1992 GMC Safaris (boy, that was a good one, though). To the other bosses (who ain’t as cool) who were screwed over by asshole employees quitting to go to the Converge show in Cleveland, Ohio (on the Poacher Diaries split EP, no less…WORTH IT).

To the guys who, right before closing time, would so cleverly lift the old-fashioned phone just slightly off the hook, so it appeared to the old man as though business had all but ceased for the evening. No pesky last minute re-cleaning of the counter tops.

To the nerdy kids in glasses just holding on to the dream — just praying for that hot mom in the bathrobe to answer the door…I was once just like you.

When you don’t tip, we do remember. We — the scandalous, not-giving-a-shit pizza men — may be liable to partially spill your dipping sauce on the roofs of our 1994 Saturn four-door and then proceed to scoop it all back into the cup, licking the edges where necessary…all in the name of “haste” for you, the customer.

This is for all the metalhead pizza men worldwide who like blast beats at 240bpm and their pepperonis in the shape of a pentagram…we’ll always be united in cheesedom. Don’t let the man keep you down.