Papa, can you hear me?

I work in an industrial part of town. It's a place where there are more semis than not and when I go running at lunch, I inhale just as much exhaust fumes as if I were sucking on the tailpipe of a normal car. It's fantastic. And healthy.

Our offices are located right next to some main headquarter/official gathering place for a pizza delivery service that rhymes with Schmapa Schmohn's. I used to like pizza from this place. But that was before I saw the "managers" gather at our offices once a month. While I've never worked for that company, it is clear that there are two surefire things that will move you up in the company: your ability to chain smoke and your ability to wear ill-fitting clothes. The guys wear pants that are one or two sizes too big such that they gap and bunch over their shoes. The women wear pants that are a size or two too small...sort of looking like sausage stuffed in some faulty casing. It is, in a word, HOTT.

And the cigarettes...oh my word, with the cigarrettes! They seriously smoke two or three cigarettes each in a 20 minute break and really? ALL OF THEM SMOKE. They come to these meetings wearing sweat and pizza topping stained polos, picking their noses and shooting snot rockets on the ground.

I'm not so naive to think that the employees of my favorite pizza place would be doing something different, it's that I don't have to SEE the people that make my pizza do it.

ANYWAY. Today, Papa Schmohn came to this location. They baracaded the parking lot, had a news crew here and allowed people to belly up and get their pictures taken with THE John that started it all.

They had blow-horns, sparklers, photo ops, and a baby poop gold colored Camero that they could pose next to.

It was, in a word, creeptacular.