Dive in. Cannon Balls are permitted.

Dumpster Dining is always a treat and often fruitful. It is easy to separate the good fruit from the bad fruit, simply by smell; if it smells like alcohol its bad, if its moldy its bad. Bread is usually individually wrapped in bags, just like when it is sitting on the shelf in Aisle Three, protection from the smelly dumpster juice.

There are different levels of dumpsters out there: those behind regular grocery stores usually have a wide selection of discarded food to pick through. Then, there are the dumpsters sitting behind the overpriced bourgeois grocery stores -- I would like to return to the Conquistadors' never ending search for El Dorado -- usually filled with less, but usually filled with flavors more delicate, like that of the shari of sushi.

Never did I think that I would rue the sound of eating sushi for breakfast, but it happened. Behind a certain Albertson's supermarket, my friend and I peered inside of a dumpster with at least $100 worth of sushi at the bottom, packaged in plastic and still ice-cold. We walked briskly back to his residence and put our bounty in the fridge.

Two days later, I was sick of sushi.