Speaking of spitting, that's one of my nasty habits. Ever since I learned from my cousin Kelly how to hock a loogie, I've been a spitter. I don't know why; it's easier just to swallow one's saliva, but where's the fun in that? A nice thick spitball can travel yards, and if no one spat, we wouldn't have spitting contests. (Of course, those contests usually involve watermelon seeds or cherry pits, but still …)
Expectoration has a long history, and it's not all bad. Spitting on someone has always been considered the ultimate insult, but Jesus used his spittle, plus a pinch of dirt, to heal the blind. Many a pact have been sealed by a soggy handshake. Gaylord Perry owes his career to the spitball … OK, maybe that doesn't fall in the good column, unless you're Gaylord Perry.
Spitting is not very sanitary, which is why I have stopped doing it on sidewalks and in parking lots. I try to keep it in the grass or the bushes. And for some reason, I've always thought it blasphemy to spit anywhere on church property. I'm pretty sure somebody told me that when I was little, and it stuck with me.
Spitting is an art form. You have to ball up the loogie with your tongue, or if you want to get cute, you can "skeet" or "gleek" – send a shower of spit through your teeth. I've never mastered that, thought I've done it on accident quite often.
That's right, accidental spitting. I must be a redneck.
Today's Redneck Moment: My youngest daughter hocked a good-sized loogie out my car window. I was so proud.
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