Dear Papa John,

It pains me to write this letter. Honest to goodness, I’m usually your number one fan (I’ve been a member of the “Fan of Papa John’s” Facebook group since 2008). But right is right, and the American Consumer’s sense of duty in me hasn’t slept for weeks.

I think your pizza is great. I really do. Nine times out of ten it comes to my doorstep hot and fresh, made with those trademark “better ingredients” and always accompanied by packets of that wine-of-the-dipping-sauce-world garlic butter jus. Even my grandparents, products of the Depression who would rather eat leftover Vienna Sausage tetrazzini than pay for takeout food, order pizza from you. What can I say? My family loves your hand tossed crust and fresh-tasting pizza sauce.

And so it was with sunny anticipation that I decided to try something new from your menu. I ordered my pizza online for the first time and, while navigating through the process, I noted that I could “upgrade” to a pan pizza for a token surcharge. Feeling a little bit saucy, I decided to take the plunge.

Thirty five-ish minutes later, Arthur was at my doorstep. (I remember his name merely because of its novelty, not because I have personal relationships with my pizza delivery vendors.) Arthur delivered the pizza with utmost class, like a butler trained in the sitting rooms of Mayfair. I took the box with greedy anticipation. I make it a rule to act civilized in life, but come on, man, this is pizza!

I immediately noticed the temperature of the box. It wasn’t boiling. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t even warm. If lukewarm describes the temperature of a cardboard box you could buy in a 72 degree Office Max supply store, then, yeah, I’ll give you that; it was lukewarm.

I opened up the box. Like every man who is abruptly called upon to revise his entire scheme of values, I was a bit undone. What was I staring at? Could this be my pizza? I’ll admit, I was at first taken aback by the square shape of the pizza. I was expecting round, but tomato tomato (please say that second “tomato” with an accent for effect), shape doesn’t much matter, I guess.

But, oh the rest of the pizza! The pieces were already broken apart, like it was made of Californian tectonic plates that no longer wanted to live in California. The cheese was only half-way melted. And I’m being generous when I say melted. I probably could have had a more melted product on that pie if I would have used my own sticks of string cheese kept outside the refrigerator for twenty minutes. And the crust! Oh, the crust! What normally should be the LeBron James of a pan pizza—the pinnacle, the climax, the point d’ appui—was a mockery of flour, yeast and water. It lacked any sort of character (not that I want my crust to be honest, chaste and true but...); if I had been chewing on Pillsbury croissant dough, I might not have noticed a difference. Maybe I was chewing on Pillsbury croissant dough. Do you outsource your pan pizza dough to General Mills?

I could go on, but why bother? I think you get my drift. It’ll be a few blue moons and a couple of real estate cycles before I ever order a pan pizza from you again.

With every good wish,

David Heywood

My mother is

Energetic, charismatic, loving, An example, life-of-the-party, friendly, Motivating, diligent, healthy, A little out of control (sometimes), creative, caring, the cream of Westwood, Zealous, virtuous, determined, a water skier, cheerful, Incomparable, happy, fun, “Mashed Potatoes and Gravie, Marie”, No pushover (right Red Ledges?) a Warriorette, easy-going, frugal, compassionate, a December baby, often right, popular, spiritual, strong, faithful, Great



Happy mother's day--

Uh...yeah...almost forgot

Hahahha. I did go a little overboard in college. I forgot about this.

http://www.thezoobie.com

Found in my old BYU papers. Was this a cry for help?

Dear Friend,

Hi-dee-ho neighbors and fellow Zoobies.

Unless you’ve been underwater for the past few years, you might have noticed something. We Zoobies are getting a bad rap. For some reason, the phrase “Zoobie” has become about as popular as a Tahitian Noni salesman. The meaning of Zoobie now brings negative connotations and eye-shifting silence, almost as if we are self-righteous dorks. We’re not, of course (self-righteous, that is. I’ll be the better man and let any Zoobie-hater out there call me a dork, if that makes their black inner souls happy).

Normally, I am just a normal go-to-my-ballroom-dance-class-minding-my-own-business type of guy, but experience after experience has changed all that. The straw that broke the Cosmo’s back occurred a few weeks ago, when I heard a U of U student say “Zoobie” in a tone so snooty, I had to readjust my glasses to confirm that I wasn’t talking to Rick Majerus or Alex Smith. After that day, I knew I had to do something—write a letter to the New Era, picket outside Wasatch Front stake centers, or at least complain to my three awesome roommates (Spencer K. Ball, Ben Ezra Taftson, Alma Richards, and Walley Chessler). My rants turned to rage, my rage turned to fury, and my fury turned to sound. I stopped for a day to read some Faulkner, and then decided to make this post. Here I can protect the good and faithful name of Zoobie, the Lord’s University, and President and Sister Samuelson’s honor.

Yes siree, Bob, I want to tell the world that I’m 100% Zoobie—true blue, through and through. I was born a Zoobie and I’ll die a Zoobie. When I pass on, I hope to be buried in Cougartown, with my headstone facing east—-my heart towards the Y, the mountains, and Zion.

So, blend together a scoop of Lavell Vanilla, some caffeine-free Hershey’s syrup (you can buy it off the internet) and indulge yourself with a malted shake too thick for a straw. Rise and shout—it’s Zoobie time! The Cougars are

Out,

D.B. Heywood