Allow Me Statue
When I was a child, I tried paste, and when the air is dry, I go home and pick my nose. Fine. But never have I ever spat. I simply don’t get the point. Is everybody else’s mouth so oozing, so pussing, so bursting with saliva, so gobbed, so Pavlovian, so like a rainstorm circa Noah, that it all becomes too unbearable, and there must be a release, and so, a spit! Is it in fact impossible not to spit? Everywhere I go in this town it seems there’s five people around me struggling to pronounce Chanukah, and it seems I’m almost ducking to ensure zero contact between me and the see-through, spermy blob that will land just inches away from my person. And if it’s not air born when I’m around, then it’s all around me on the sidewalk in puffy mini-puddles that I have to dodge but inevitably can’t dodge completely. I am seeking answers. If you know why Philadelphians spit—if you indeed spit—please click on “info” at the bottom here and contribute a comment that lets me know why.
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