Claim your sushi, damn it!

To the hard of hearing and/or ignorant dipshit in Apartment 1A:
A sushi delivery guy has been knocking on your door and calling out what I think is Japanese mixed with Pig Latin for the past 15 minutes. At first, he was doing it so loudly that I was forced to peek my head out and lie to him that I was trying to sleep just so he would use his “inside voice” rather than one that I’m sure is acceptable in the kitchen where your unclaimed order was prepared. It sounded like someone was ready to rumble, and given that this is indeed the Upper West Side, I didn’t put it past him to start twirling, spinning, and snapping his fingers accordingly, while wearing slim-fitting pants and Keds.
Now, after my gentle reprimand (and I swear it was gentle, as I had to live up to my charade of “trying to sleep”, complete with a slight tired tone in my voice), he has taken to gently tapping on your door with what sounds like a dime and a crushed spirit, with no verbal accompaniment to inform that he has brought you your sushi.
In another 15 minutes, this sad and defeated communication will be further reduced to a mere vapor, wafting outside your door, hoping to be inhaled by you into your cruel consciousness.
Answer your door, you jackass. This maki me very sad.