Street Eat

Someone’s gotta do something about people eating on the street. No, not eating the street itself, which even I sometimes do when I’m ravenous and don’t have more than a few paltry sheckles in my pocket to buy some tasty Nuts4Nuts. I’m talking about people walking down the street, eating stuff that just shouldn’t be eaten while perambulating.
I’m not going to preach about how gross the food itself is. How the pizza whose cheese has already been slopped off looks like a burn victim’s thigh or how the do(ugh)nut is a total waste of time (shut up, Krispy Kreme devotees; I don’t want to hear it) or how the soft pretzels here are not the treats they are in Philadelphia but instead taste like the stuff you scrape off the toaster oven rack or the floor of a mechanic’s garage. (Not that I would know what that tastes like, of course. I’m willing to lick Broadway from time to time, but that’s where I draw the line.)
So, anyway, people must stop eating certain food items on the street. As a general rule, if you would use utensils to eat it at home, you should not eat it on the street, either without utensils or with just your fingers. You should not walk down the street with a bento box, sampling its wares with your soy-soaked fingers or chopsticks. You should not shuffle down the street mindlessly reaching into an open pizza box or any sort of container whose purpose is to transport the food from its source to a suitable location where you would customarily remain stationary while cramming it down your gullet.
What’s next? Roving three-martini business lunches? Itinerant dim sum? Nomadic lobster dinners, complete with plastic bib, shambling down Sixth Avenue? A clump of chunky cronies walking six abreast, sharing a mobile all-you-can-(and-will-)eat buffet?
Sit down. Take a literal load off. If you’re not going to stop and smell the roses, then just sit the fuck down and smell your smorgasbord instead.