I am quite unreasonably irked over the absence of a Pizza Hut Personal Pan Pizza, considering that I don’t even like Pizza Hut’s food and didn’t intend to order any for myself. In fact I’m far more annoyed than the child who actually got cheated out of her pizza. I may need therapy to work through my pizza-related anger issues.
See, the Pizza Hut corporation sponsored our local library’s summer reading program. Kids were instructed to read for 1,000 minutes. After 500 minutes, they could get a “half way” prize from the librarian. The prize turned out to be a coupon for a Personal Pan Pizza, which I thought was a lame prize, but hey, it was only the half way point. Then I noticed that the coupon would expire in less than two weeks, since my daughter jumped into the summer reading program at the end of August. Lamer still.
Since the coupon expired today, and I wanted Little Bit to get the pizza she earned, we ran over to Pizza Hut after her piano lesson. As the words “personal pan pizza” were leaving my mouth, the boy at the counter was already shaking his head.
“We’ll be out of those for the next hour,” he said, with not the faintest trace of apology in his voice.
How can a pizza restaurant be out of pizza? And if they can be out of pizza, how can they be out of pizza for only an hour?
I waved the coupon. “But we’ve got this coupon…”
“Yes,” he interrupted, “it says right on there that we’ll be selling a huge number of those and so we might run out.” Again, no regret, no apology, and no interest whatsoever in the child who thought she was going to get her damn pizza.
Wait an hour for the personal pan pizza supplies to be miraculously replenished? No.
Travel across town to another Pizza Hut outlet in the hopes that they have personal pan pizzas on hand? Not a chance.
Throw the coupon in the trash, go home, and cook some frozen potstickers? Ding ding ding! Winner!
Little Bit, as I mentioned, seemed to care little about this pizza slight. But my inner Mama Bear wanted to grab that creep by his collar, haul his ass over the counter, and wipe the supercilious smirk off his face with my claws.
In case you are wondering, the prize for completing the program, which Little Bit did a few days ago, was a fabulous art kit containing markers, crayons, and paints, provided by some other company that keeps its promises to children.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to call my therapist. My growling is starting to scare the kids.