Hear  your  fate,  O  famished  sustenance seeker,  for I  have come to  quell  your
hunger.

Yearning and downtrodden  you may be,  remember that the  Fates forever  spin
their wheel.

Know you not that  raindrops  must race down  glass panes,  that the sun  comes
to dry sodden skin?

Hear now –  Friday comes after  Thursday and Saturday after that,  and there are
specials every Sunday: two, two-topping medium pizzas.

Wait  not  in  despair,  for  bears  still  sleep  in  the  winter  and  when  they  wake
hungry, flowers will stretch away into the spring.

Pray  remember  that the price of cycles of laundry  is the occasional sock but  O
is it not a worthy price for the feeling of a towel, freshly plucked from the dryer?

In your  fiercest battle,  your greatest trial  from the Gods  themselves,  someone
will cradle your hand and insist it will be okay. It will be okay.

As the  mundane,  cyclical  safety  comforts,  the pizza  will  always drip  with the
right  amount  of  grease  –  that’s our promise,  as sure as the Aegean Sea  carries
ships across its currents.

Here, I have the machine ready. You’ll pay by card – no one pays cash anymore.