Spitball Army

Let’s just assume that a polling population of 2,513 people is representative of the entirety of the United States. OK. That accomplished, take a look at what the entirety of the United States claims as its ten favorite books.

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At one of the three breaks between acts, I took an exploratory excursion down the many staircases that spiraled toward the basement. The Met, between acts, is one big 15-minute speed-party out in the lobbies, and all of the people are beautiful. My inner voyeur found it nearly as entertaining as the opera. I tried to spot celebrities, but saw none. Budgeting time for the climb back to my aerie, I went in to use the basement men’s room.

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My teeth tore them to pulp, the juices skewering and whimpering at the bottom of my stomach. It was so sad down there in my stomach. There was much weeping, and little gloomy clouds of gas pinched my heart.

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Grandfather stood in the yard and gave a standing ovation.

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I sat at one of the tables and looked at the pictures on the wall. There was one panel of rabbits, dead, one of pheasants, also dead, and one panel of dead ducks. The panels were all dark and smoky-looking. There was a cupboard full of liqueur bottles. I looked at them all.

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During the split second that I became suspended in air, I looked up and saw her eyes, big as jawbreakers

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Mother, that man there wants to take your picture. Let’s dance!!

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