Spitball Army

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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Jury duty has its perks: this break-time hilarity was spotted along a corridor in the Jefferson County Courthouse in Birmingham, Alabama.

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I must tell you about the moon out here at this time, and what is more, let you know how mad I am watching it go to waste.

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He turns up Vaughan Williams to the bearable limit, cheese straw crumbs dotting his sweater, his piquant pipe smoldering on the table.

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Card is titled: “A January Scene at Camelback Inn, Phoenix, Arizona. p-61. 6B-H30.”

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Approximate playing time: 80 minutes.

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An industrious woodpecker taps out syncopation to the car stereo piano while windshield sleet drops provide a wintry counterpoint.

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13° F and the view is a fuzzy steel gray, as if a great exhalation hangs over the yard. I rub both eyes. Cataract check: negative.

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He’s tweeting to find out if any of his followers are among the thirty or so in attendance. They’re watching him. His head’s down.

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Asleep, she’s a champion mouser, home protector, rewarded with bottomless saucers of milk. Awake, she stumbles, blind, into walls.

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