down ye oppressors of pizza.

We're good kids here in the suburbs. And I think the man knows it. Not any man in particular, you know, the man. Last night we had a little gaffe; a nibble of the flesh of the forbidden fruit... a foray into the world of petty crime, if you will. And oh, you will.

Pizza St*r, oh how I do thank thee. For you have provided me with a haven of pizzaine goodness. An island among oceans of cheesy pasty crap. An Undominoes; A StepPapa John's. And so it was with most humble apology that I forced Eddie of 42 Monkey fame to call you last night after we transgressed upon your holy tableau of trust. Only here in suburban New Jersey would you allow your pizza patrons to eat the pizza before paying. And only here in New Jersey would you allow us to wander out of your establishment without completing promised transaction. And only here would we feel so immediately guilty, so infinitely dirty and unworthy, that we would immediately call you to remit promised payment.

And only here in New Jersey would you know that we'll be back and agree to accept payment "next time" -- for, after all, there is simply nowhere else to go. And even though you always insist on mopping the floor while we sit and chew, thereby releasing a noxious odor of rotting cherries throughout the joint, I'm sure you're right... we will be back, and we'll pay you that fifteen bucks, and we'll apologize profusely, and you'll never forget us, and maybe you'll even put a painting of us up on the wall. I can only dream.