Congratulations.

Congratulations.

Great news, registered user. You won a pizza. Did you realize you won a pizza. Did you. Congratulations.

Your pizza will arrive shortly. Congratulations. We’re excited for you. We’re also excited about the no-hitter that entitled you to this pizza. Did you see the final out. It was something. Always is under those circumstances. Hope you enjoy the pizza.

Have you ordered with us before. We hope you’ll consider doing business with us again. Next time, would you consider actually paying for our goods and services. Trying to run a business here. We’re franchised. Did you know that. So it’s really on us to execute all these ideas that corporate comes up with. Ideas that cost us money. Anyway, congratulations.

You’d think a location with our revenues and located in this hollowed-out, post-industrial Midwestern butt-scape would be exempted from this kind of promotion, but I suppose that’s asking for too much. Congratulations. Fucking Obama.

How old are you. We ask because ordering a pizza such as ours is fun for, say, pre-teens and adolescents. If you’re well into adulthood, though, then it’s something you do by force of habit and, at the same time, a willful diminishing of oneself — like making sheep noises while you crap.

Anyhow, congratulations on your free pizza. Hope you like it. Remember, 30 minutes or it’s free. Oh right. Never mind.

I live in a window-less efficiency above a funeral home. It’s an attic with an exterior staircase, really. I find the inconsolable weeping from below is loudest on Thursdays, for whatever reason. My icebox is slowly falling through the floor, so at this point I hear everything. By now, the sobbing is like a bad song stuck in my head.

So congratulations.