I’ve mentioned before in commentary that I once worked at the most fucked-up pizza chain you can imagine. I figure I can either name them or describe them, without getting sued. It’s more fun to describe them, so I’ll keep doing that. But the name “Cheesy Pete’s Pizza” is not far off.
*Google Cheesy Pete’s Pizza* Um, it’s not this restaurant in Germany, either.
No, this was a chain which has grown like weeds in the Southwestern United States, despite sucking copious amounts of ass. You can apparently make a lot of money with cheap knockoffs in neighborhoods too nasty to support a Chuck E. Cheese.
It was natural for me to draw on my experiences there when I approached these guys. The one with the receding hairline looks a lot like the smug asshole vice president who hired me, and assigned me to a store where they were also bringing in the fifth general manager in eight months. This is the store where gang members came in and waved knives at our customers and slashed their tires, where the clown was dealing drugs, where I was apparently the only person not kiting cash out of the registers, and where a kid knocked out all of his front teeth falling against an improperly padded pole in the ball pit.
It was not easy for me to come up with some outrageous behavior for this strip that didn’t happen at “Cheesy Pete’s.” I only wish I had thought of this idea at the time. My girlfriend might very well have gone for it.
Come to think of it, one of the cashiers might have, too.