I was reading this post on work horror stories, and it usually reminds me of the "code" we had while working at local pizza place.
Whenever an attractive woman came in to pick up some food, one of us would shout, "Rootbeer up. Need some rootbeer up front."
The pizza place doesn't sell rootbeer, or at least didn't at the time. That was the code for each guy to take a peek at the eye candy.
Only one woman ever found out, a 50-something woman who didn't say anything until the attractive woman left. Ever since then, we wrote the 50 somethings name on the cork board and every time she came in, she got her rootbeer call. She was flushed pink every time she left the place.
If one of the landers (the guys who chuck the pizza out of the pan, toss it into the box, and cut it) was getting hungry, he'd cut an inch strip out of the middle of the pizza to munch on.
You got on our bad side, we'd intentionally not cut your pizza. Oops.
If we screwed up, the Manager would write your name in a book to get free pizza next time. He figured if you called the office, you'd get the same deal anyway, so if we screwed up, we admitted it.
And the ONLY time I saw a manager make a pizza from the floor was when a delivery driver had to make 3 runs to one address. They didn't get the pizza the first two times when 1) they were at the store to get beer and 2) had the stereo up so loud that they couldn't answer the door or the phone. When they called to complain, they got the "fresh" pizza.
We had four phones to answer, and when we were getting tired of it AND no customers were in the store, we'd pick up the one that wasn't ringing and scream "what they ^$#$ do you want!" then pick up the other phone, "Thank you for calling Y, will this be for carryout or delivery tonight?"
Dough ball fights. Dough hurts. Especially when they're golf ball sized.
On the rare occasions we were out of butter for the garlic bread, we'd buy all the butter at the local convenience store.