Everyday Dirtbag Entry #46.

I’ve found dirtbag heaven.  It’s a place called Papa’s Pizza Parlor.

An enormous eatery,Papa’s is frequented by the middle class, a group comfortable with 28-dollar pizza’s and hordes of similarly-dressed people.

Papa’s has a large, fun, 600-square-foot play area with balls, tunnels, slides, merry-go-rounds, and video games.  Children love it.  And during birthday parties, the children congregate on this playground, running and laughing, skipping and tackling, ignoring their pizza slices and presents.  Even their slices of cake.

In comes a dirtbag.  Presumably, he’s there to bring a child to a birthday party.  But in reality, he’s there to scavenge.  He walks by table after table.  Abandoned slices of barely-touched food.  A bite here out of the crust.  Once piece of pepperoni peeled off there.  A pristine, frosting-covered morsel of cake.  And two full rootbeers.  Ungulped?  Unsipped?

As my friend Jeff put it, “That’s just being a dirtbag.  And in other countries, people are doing the same thing, only they’re doing it to survive.”

Maybe that’s what was going on at Papa’s Pizza Parlor today:

Survival.

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