Spitball Army

The walls around this table are adorned with photos of Strom Thurmond and Richard Shelby. My BBQ plate tastes of vinegar and ash.

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He’s lying on the sidewalk, bundled. Asleep? One eye’s open. Should I nudge him? No need: the ambulance is here to haul him away. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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“Got a schpoon?” he asks the waitress. She shoots him a girn. “A schpoon,” he insists. “Schure,” she tells him, “I got scheveral.” – Written by @Ralphley.

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Shopping secondhand stores for flatware, she shows me how to find good spoons: bend the neck. If it bends, she says, don’t buy it. Leaving small mounds of bent spoons in our wake, we proceed empty-handed to the lead-infused dishware section.

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Snaps from the birthday party: Jack drinking whiskey; Jack standing on his head; Jack flipping off the camera; Jack wearing cake.

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In lieu of a 7th birthday party, we’ve arranged for Sister Augustine Mary to telephone you and play “Las Mañanitas” on her trumpet.

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We dance to “Brown Sugar”: high, drunk, sweaty. Wow, you really feel the music, she says. I plant a sloppy kiss on her and pass out.

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Alone, he pantomimed “Dominique” full-bore, mimicking French words he didn’t know. Song over, he turned: his parents stood agape.

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She pronounced the phrase as “swav and de-boner,” as if the intent garbling of the words lent her hipster sophistication.

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Cost of four sodas at movie snack bar: $27. Collapsible water bottles filled at bubbler: free. Anarchic satisfaction: priceless.

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