Imagine walking into your favorite pizza joint and observing a worker in the kitchen reach down into his pants to scratch an itch. It has been years since we ordered what we affectionately christened "crotch pizza." Tonight we stepped out on blind faith to try the place again. Mr. Rellim assured me that the crotch-scratchin' kid has probably moved on (to what other restaurant, I have no idea).
End of story? Yummy pizza.
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