Last night while waiting in line for movie tickets, I noticed this tall man tucked into a recess in the wall, eating chicken strips out of a little paper tray. I had the most overwhelming urge to go pluck one of the strips out of his hand and eat it. A salivating at the mouth, twitchy-fingered sort of urge.

Self, I said, wouldn't it be great if this were the kind of world where I could actually do that? Where I wouldn't have to worry about social mores and bum cooties, and I could just go help myself to a morsel of tasty chicken?

A sense of "hug and kiss the whole world" self-righteousness descended on me, since I was obviously the only human on the planet enlightened enough to see that we live wrongly when we aren't open to sharing our food and drink with complete strangers on the street or treating outside as one united colors of Benetton all-you-can eat buffet. Only centuries of other people's hang-ups and prejudice were keeping me from a lovely snack, man.

Then it occurred to me that I would be pretty snappy if someone wandered over and dipped their dirty paw into my food. Especially as hungry as I was at that moment, seeing as how I'd been so busy all day that all I'd eaten was a small bag of animal crackers. Sometimes you need to know that you'll be able to possessively chow down, undisturbed by the demanding appetites of your fellow man trying to sneak your delicious fries away from you.

But I suppose it was a nice idea while it lasted. A better idea than donating books to children in a reading program and making sure EVERYONE KNOWS by commemorating the event with a big fat nametag sticker.

Maybe I'd be less grumpypuss if I'd eat more often.