There have been several occasions in my life when I seriously wanted to punch somebody in the face. Not somebody in general; we all have that feeling from time to time. I'm referring to someone specific. And contrary to what they always say about how violence mainly occurs among people who know each other, the objects of my hatred are almost always strangers with whom I've never spoken.

Another common thread that runs through my violent desire is that the person I want to roundhouse usually hasn't done anything to wrong me. The stimulus to my barely controlled response isn't something they've done, but rather something they represent. The best way to put it is this: These are people who just need punching.

I vividly recall one such incident that occurred about five years ago at the Fitger's Brewhouse. Back then, we always used to try to snag the cushy chairs near the window if possible. Usually, we'd sit down somewhere nearby and wait for that table to open up. Then we'd quickly scurry in and snag the comfy seats before anyone else could even move.

This night, like most, that table was occupied. Sort of. But here's the thing: The three guys who occupied it WERE NOT EVEN SITTING IN THE COMFY CHAIRS. Instead, they chose to stand around the table, and the nice chairs only served as a resting place for their jackets. Eventually, their gigantic order of nachos arrived, and my blood began to boil as they continued to stand around the table eating chips and sour cream. They must have been brothers, because they all ate in the exact same way -- shoveling chips into their mouths, then licking off each of their five fingers in perfect sequence. It was disgusting. And the one on the end ... man ... the way he in particular looked as he stood there bug-eyed, sucking guacamole and salsa off of his thumb ... he was just begging for it.

I didn't punch him, or do anything else of course. I'm a civilized human being. But I sure did fantasize about walking up to him and decking his fat chip-crunching face. And whenever I have this fantasy, my deceased grandfather is standing there right beside me. When I punch the guy, Gramps always hollers, "Pow! Right in the kisser!"

Another time, I was standing at a urinal next to a certifiable Republican. Now, I have nothing against Republicans per se, but this dude needed a knuckle sandwich, pronto. He didn't do anything but stand there emptying his considerable bladder. Something about him, though ...

He was probably mid-50s, about 6'3" wearing a blue suit and a combover. And as he stood there peeing, he held an enormous unlit cigar in his mouth, which would have been bad enough, except that he also had his head leaned back so that the stogie stuck straight up into the air. The whole thing looked so ridiculous I could barely take it.

What I wanted to do was this: Grab the cigar out of his mouth, break it in two, and throw it on the floor. Then, as he stood there astonished (still mid-pee, mind you) sock him so hard that his jowls flapped. Oh, the image was sooooo delicious. Once again, however, I restrained myself.

Pow! Right in the kisser!

But when I really think about it, I haven't had the urge to drill somebody in the face for quite a number of years. Maybe I've mellowed with age. Or maybe, I'm just not livin' right.