Spitball Army

The #balloonboy episode now seems to equal that plastic bag from American Beauty in cultural relevance – empty and drifting away.

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He wiped-out at the base of the slope, yet insisted on one more run. By the time our lift made the summit, he’d forgotten my name.

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First time behind the wheel? In a yellow 1956 Jeep Willys. First auto accident I had? That same Jeep Willys. Casualty? A woodpile.

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As we approached Weeks Bridge, she broke away, racing to the span’s apex. I slogged, lead-footed, panting and aflush, to meet her.

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I knew the Twitter thing had gotten out of hand when I received a handwritten letter that began with the salutation, “Dear @Fred.”

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The domestic war of words escalated after the foreign group favored his aspirations with the simple honor of calling them “peace.”

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Her thin, papery hands ran over my face. She couldn’t recall my name but recognized the shape of my jaw. So, naturally, we danced.

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Four years ago, he had a tumor removed from beneath his left eye. Now, when he smiles, only his right eye is shadowed by a crease.

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I approach the cashier: “How are you?” “I’m BLESSED!” she chirps, “How was breakfast?” “Best goddam pancakes I ever ate,” I reply.

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The cop car drove away. “I just can’t ever win!” I complained. “What’s this then?” she asked, holding aloft the speeding ticket.

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