Oh! Dear God, this pizza is so good, it's so good, it's so good. I wolf down a large floppy slice, feeling the flour base on my tongue followed by the tang of sauce. The faint spice of pepperoni pricks my taste buds and finally the ooey-gooey delight of the cheese fills my mouth. It takes me just seconds to finish one slice and I suck down another, and another and another.

I stand alone in the kitchen, knowing I am blowing my diet. They say I should eat nothing but berries and healthy non-processed foods. Well, they can go to hell. I'd rather die than give up pizza. It probably is killing me. This little late night habit of mine is causing me to put on more pounds than I care to share with you. It's probably lining my arteries, priming them for a premature heart attack.

But I'd do anything for pizza.

I'm like a heroin addict, unafraid of going to extremes to get my hit. I usually can control myself during the day, when people might see me and gawk. So I lay low, act casual, keep a low profile. No one notices my appetite and I during waking hours, we strike at night.

Oh, baby, do we ever go for it.

I mean I'm really not a professional thief, and I probably shouldn't really be telling you this, but I have no qualms about stealing a pizza here and there. I mean if the delivery guy leaves my neighbors some 'za and they are a bit pokey to pull it inside, why not? The pizza store will bring them another. There is so much competition they don't want to lose a loyal customer. 

And am I ever a loyal customer when it comes to scarfing down pizza.

I consider the fact that my habit is totally out of control as I lean against the counter of an unsuspecting neighbor polishing off a pie. I mean he was stupid enough to leave his sliding glass door unlocked and the leftover pie on the counter. Don't judge me or my expanding waistline. I'll kill you.

I didn't mean that. Just joking mate. I'd only kill you if you try to take away the deep-dish Meat Lover's Supreme I'm currently inhaling. Seriously, I'm a gentle giant. 

The pizza's gone and I'm flipping over the garbage to rummage for any lone crusts that might still be available to suck down, when the lights turn on and I hear a scream. 

Easy friend, I look up. Don't freak out. My name is Hank. My Twitter profile is Hank-The-Tank and everyone agrees I'm a nice, friendly guy. I'm just your average 500-pound pizza-loving black bear. You got a problem with that? Or more to the point, do you have any extra parm in the fridge?

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Author's Note: See link in comments to related news article.