Spitball Army

The rocky river bank is dotted with “Do Not Remove Fossils” signs. He slips three stones into his shoe and struggles not to limp.

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At book club, the woman sits in the corner, occasionally punctuating the discussion with an “Mm HMM!” She only came for the pizza.

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Oddly Coincidental: She wheels a buggy full of withered, discounted plants to the checkout and purchases a gallon jug of RoundUp.

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Nature Euthanasia: She wheels a buggy full of withered, discounted plants to the checkout and purchases a gallon jug of RoundUp.

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Nature Torture Porn: She wheels a buggy full of withered, discounted plants to the checkout and purchases a gallon jug of RoundUp.

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The actors fought with such vigor that the rear wall nearly collapsed. Griffith kept cameras rolling, breath held, digits crossed.

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She’s a Heinz 57, running close behind her master through the shop, leaving zigzagged puddles marking each greet-wag-scratch stop.

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The actors fought with such vigor that the rear wall nearly collapsed. Griffith kept cameras rolling, breath held, digits crossed. – Witnessed (and imagined) during a recent screening of The Birth of a Nation.

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I ask for ten bags of the cheap top soil. That’s “less expensive,” I am advised. He’s right: there are still things cheaper than dirt.

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“May I help you?” The old woman shuts her eyes, drops her head in sleep. Her friend hands me a 40W bulb: “Her lights are too dim.”

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