Under pressure from my non-business artistic-type friends, we’re taking a literary diversion break tonight!

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SPIT: Rarely the object of


attention in a tender love story



     If we laugh out loud the first time we see a child’s bib block lettering proclaim “SPIT HAPPENS,” it may be because those of us with little kids in our lives know it does.  Or perhaps the humor surfaces as our minds flash unwittingly to the bumper stickers (with the adult version of the saying) and know instinctively for it to be true grit more often than not.  Isn’t it, after all, simply the unsophisticated, Americanized version of C’est La Vié?


     Spit.  We do it in disgust.  We do it in relief.  We watch baseball players do it on TV 14,397 times every game.  Boxers have their own buckets.  Spit conjures up thoughts of adrenaline, mucus, repulsion and sinusitis.  Sometimes we miss the spittoon, the gutter, the car window (yucht!) and end up with it on our sleeves, the fronts of our shirts, the tops of our shoes, rivuleting uncontrollably down our cleavages or hunkering down somewhere deep inside the thickest of our beards.


     Spit is swapped and mopped, and comes in all shapes and colors and levels of viscosity (yucht again!).  Then there’s the specialized version of spit we all know as flem.  Flem—having once been front and center in the embryonic form of a booger that got sniffed back—usually originates as a kind of loose stalagtite structure hanging mercilessly from the back recesses of the nasal passages. 


     Flem can be lumpy, smooth, or intricately woven into kiwi and mustard colored strands, occasionally available in nasty deep brown globs.  The thickest and most projectile-worthy of these is probably preceded by a throat ravaging clearance effort that sounds like a lot of little haagggt, haagggt, haagggt noises—or one death-rattling H-A-A-A-A-A-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-G-T !!!


     Tough guys spit from atop their horses, tanks, and tractors.  Adolescent boys (and some adolescent-minded men!) will dry themselves up by having distance and closest-to-the-wall contests.  But many of the winners move onward and upward to the higher challenge of launching their spittle from rooftops, movie balconies, and prime bridge locations over passing cars, boats, and trains … and unwary pedestrians.  Tomboys and other masculine females use it to draw their lines in the sand, and don’t dare step past the bubbly little puddle!

Anyway, one thing’s certain: spit has rarely been the object of attention in a tender love story. Until now. 

Stay on this site and just click here for (in the words of the immortal Paul Harvey) the rest of the story (just a few very short paragraphs!) :


Good Night and God Bless You!  halalpiar     

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    ADD TO THE DAILY GROWING 7-Word Story started 192 days ago (inside a coffin).  Click on the link to the right, or go to “BOOKS” tab at the top of this page, then to the top headline link.

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