Spitball Army

Our big-city paper transforms the news into decidedly small-town titillations by portraying snarky online comments as headlines.

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Cities dot the state as Hail Marys on a rosary chain: St. Francis, St. James, The Angels, The Sacrament – Glory be! – St. Bernard.

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1890s growth: The Magic City. 1920s steel: Pittsburgh of the South. 1960s unrest: Bombingham. 2006 vagueness: The Diverse City.

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Cat bites my finger as I force-feed her meds. A month later, she dies. Today, I notice the bruise under my nail, moving up and on.

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This $1.50 roll of Necco Wafers was larger when I was 9. Then, I traded a 10¢ roll for a Topps Johnny Bench card, now worth $300.

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Granny’s kitchen smells of hot, fried bean empanadas. The dominant scent at Gramma’s: the Listerine with which she bathes her dog.

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Our traditional holiday cranberry plate: a cylindrical gelatin shaped like a tin can. Now, we fork-mash it, to make it appetizing.

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They fancy it up with lavender, rosewater or bacon, but I’d be content with a scoop of plain vanilla. Better yet: a glass of milk.

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The bird vaults off my bumper into a triple flip with a double reverse twist. In my rearview, I see its 10-point terminal landing.

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They warned me I’d encounter talent in college: my sophomore roommate could burp the alphabet and squeeze his farts into laughter.

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