My wife Molly and I are dinner guests. The man beside me is swiping his index finger up and down on his lips. A gesture apparently called lip burbling. He’s amused, satisfied that he’s accurately described his “crazy” grandson. My fork is in mid-air and I am staring straight ahead, willing myself to breathe rather than stab him in the eye with it. In my head, my butter knife is a Katana and I leap on the table and put it to his throat, Lucy Liu style. “Do it again. I dare you.” In my head, I ...