Final Score: 23 to 2; You Lose

Somewhere between my apartment and where I park my car lives a man and his family.

Many times, on my way to and from these two locations, I have passed by this man smoking, BBQing, or otherwise... being outside. I have passed by him twenty-five times, to be exact.

Of those twenty-five times, he has loudly drawn up a wad of phlegm in his throat and spit it on the ground twenty-three times.

This should be your face right now.

I call this man... Spitty Guy. Clever, I know.

Poncho is also in on this game and occassionally asks me for the current score. Recently we were walking and Poncho was about to announce that Spitty Guy had earned another point in his favor, but I held up my finger and, lo', Spitty Guy managed to squeeze one in just before we rounded the corner out of earshot. I have learned not to underestimate the volume at which Spitty Guy can hock.

I try to be fair when keeping score. I only counted it as one point when, the other day, Spitty Guy walked to the dumpster and back, spitting six times during the thirty-foot trip. I tried to convince myself to feel sorry for him, that he must have some sort of phlegm-producing disorder, but the seemingly-constant smoking is kind of a sympathy killer.

Call me a prude but I don't like watching people expel anything from their bodies, especially where I might walk through it.

Anyway, Spitty Guy, I'm calling it. Poncho and I will be fully moved out of this apartment in a week. You just got your second point yesterday (Congratulations!) and I think we should quit while you're ahead. Good luck and God speed.