Winners don’t hock loogies.

People of the world, I see you. I see you walking down the street, looking like a mild-mannered citizen, quietly, capably making your way through the day. You appear to be living life in your own workable way, getting things done on your terms, participating in the choreographed dance of give and take that is society; while all the while rocking in the free world, crossing things off the list, and generally, looking damn good doing it.

And then I see you. I see you hock a huge loogie on the street and keep on moving like it was nothing.

And I mean a huge loogie.

You are old, you are young. You are male, you are female. You are short, a bit fat, “athletic” you tell people. You are tall, but not Lurch tall, you are skinny, yet you want to be curvy, have some hips, understand what Sir Mix A Lot was really talking about. You have brown hair, but you were once a blonde, “It’s from the sun,” you say, lying. You’re getting grays, a sign of intelligence you once read—a statement you now cling to. You have no hair, haven’t for fourteen years, but you’re over it now and your wife tells you she likes you better this way. You go Bruce Willis.

Today you are wearing a well-tailored pinstripe suit with sneakers for a more comfortable commute. Yesterday you had on socks and sandals with your khaki shorts and spirited jean jacket as you cruised around the city hitting the farmer’s markets and stopping by Bed, Bath and Beyond for “supplies.” Last week you were decked out in a jazzy tracksuit on your way to work out. Unmotivated, you walked a few blocks and had a glazed donut. Wednesday saw you don a metrosexual date night look complete with a slightly unbuttoned dress shirt and requisite blazer. The feedback was so positive you’ll keep that one in the rotation.

You are carrying bags from the shitty bodega around the corner you swore you’d never patronize again after the expired milk fiasco. You push a grocery cart full of plants past a handbag store whose window reads, “Store Closing – 90% Off Everything,” a sign that’s been there for two years. You are dragging two huge brass lamps up the block, which is so proactive of you; we all need things to be illuminated. You appear to be bringing home your work stuff, rolling that handy little backpack-cum-suitcase you so intelligently switched to after a mild lumbar problem last year. Go ahead, pat yourself on the back, man. It’s not in anyone’s way.

You are boarding the train with a look of mild annoyance, but no detectable sign of thoughts or preoccupation. You ride past me on a bike, barely stopping to see what color the light is or which way the street goes. No matter, ride on, lady. You are holding the hand of what I assume is your child. The kid looks like you, but doesn’t seem to be listening to whatever it is you’re saying. How odd. You walk hand in hand with a loved one, the two of you matching each other’s stride in that innate syncopation that couples automatically produce. You are standing at the bus stop, staring blankly down the street awaiting your ride, a line forming behind you. You are feverishly hailing a cab, hoping for a Taxi of Tomorrow (how you love those sunroofs), but ready to take whatever you can get, as usual. You are sitting silently on a bench, watching the world go by as you zone out to the playlist you so carefully crafted for just such a mood, labeling it “Sitting Silently On a Bench.”

And then, you, wherever you are, whatever you are wearing, whatever you are doing, you haul off and spit. You spit right there, right there where you are, just in time for me to see you. My timing once again absolutely perfect to catch this precious act of humanity, my mind registering semi-horror as I shrink back, fearful of a wind gust, wondering just how it is that I’ve been witness to the loogie hock yet again.

From the looks of it, you really needed that. You really needed to get that out, eject that wad, dispose of that nasal baggage with enough force to propel it far away from you and onto the waiting, embracing streets of New York City.

I know, we all gotta do what we all gotta do and, sometimes, it aint pretty. But, come on people, winners don’t hock loogies.