It might have been a side effect of one too many professional gatherings I'd attended in recent weeks, or perhaps it was the result, more generally, of an excess of performed professionalism I'd built up like arterial plaque over the past several years, but whatever the cause, abruptly last night, whilst on a black and barren stretch of the Pike, halfway home from a late night at work, I was overcome by the impulse - nay, the necessity - to try my first-ever spit take.
I swigged a mouthful of water from the bottle beside me, replaced both hands on the wheel, imagined something had caused me great surprise, and with as much suddenness and force as I could muster, blasted the liquid forth. Drops, far more copious than I had anticipated, sprayed far and wide, covering the windshield and dash, and in the darkness glittered and shone like dewy stars. I was giddy with release. It was easily the best thing I've done in weeks, if not all year, and by best I mean not simply a thing of pleasure but of virtue.
I do, I do believe in a vaudeville-loving God.
* from Shoveling Snow With Buddha , a poem my mother loves