Walking downtown on a bright spring day, watching people queue for the lunch trucks. Wondering why we can't have them year 'round. Even in winter. Put them on machines that winch them up to the skyway level? No, that's silly. Bring them up with cranes. They'd sway a little, but HEY HEY HEY, WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?
A guy spit right in front of me. He was sitting by the light-rail station, and let loose a sluice that shot out like a translucent minnow, right by my shoe. If he'd hit my shoe, what would I do? Thanks, pal! Let me just get out this brush and rag and shine up the old loafers. Mind lubricating the other one?
It's disgusting, of course. It's bad hygiene, to use a word that makes you think of high school classes about the importance of preventing personal fungus. It's antisocial and contemptuous, and should be reserved for the following situations:
A) Confronting the person who informed on you during the Occupation, and who has been shaved by a mob and is accepting the judgment of public contempt.
Also, you are a llama that spits when angered.
B) See "A."
Given these conditions, I had to ask: Has Minneapolis just been liberated by Allied forces, and did my shoe tell the Gestapo that this man has been harboring fugitives in his attic? That's no on both counts, so don't spit at my shoe.
Don't even try to tell me there's some llama on your mother's side.