Spitball Army

Would you close your flap, that I don’t forego my boiled eggs?!

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Toothache assessment: “I’ve been prostrated with the agonies of the damned.”

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My Dad taught me: The best part of drinking bottled Coke is the tiny cokie particles collected in the bottom, making the last swig the best.

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She does love old movies, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when she said “basil” as if it were cast in a Sherlock Holmes film.

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Do-rag-wearing huckster to me at gas station: “Hey, Boss-man!” I think: You’re perpetuating a Black stereotype that thousands have died while attempting to eliminate. But I don’t say it. Instead, I post it on my blog.

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1965. We nab sweet snacks from the kumquat tree and honeysuckle vine on the way inside for a dinner of fish sticks and Jell-O.

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Mimosas line the Southern highway off-ramp, pink and green preppy parasols nodding to the traffic. There’s not a college for miles.

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You’ll be better off, she said. Turn that down, she said. It’s the same every time, she said. Don’t mix beer and wine, she said.

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Listening 101: As she hands me my sandwich – ordered as “no ketchup, please” – she asks me, “Would you like ketchup with that?”

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I was told by a co-worker today that our current civilization won’t last three more years, and that I’d better have my guns ready. It was then I realized that an Obama bumper sticker on my truck might not be a good idea.

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