FUCKING CLAM SPIT

       SO YOU'RE OUT AT THE BEACH AT FOUR IN THE FUCKING MORNING, DIGGING FOR THESE FUCKERS SO YOU CAN MAKE A BUCK AT MARKET, ALL YOU GOT IS THIS LITTLE PLASTIC SHOVEL, AND THE SEA SPRAY IS COLD AS HELL. YOU GOT YOUR HOLE, ABOUT THREE FEET DEEP, AND YOU GOT A COUPLE CLAMS, JUST A FEW MORE TO GO BEFORE YOU KNOW YOU'LL HAVE ENOUGH FOR SOME SHORT CAKE FOR MOTHER'S DAY. YOU REACH DOWN INTO THAT DARK HOLE, WHICH TAKES UP YOUR WHOLE ARM AT THIS POINT, AND FLAIL YOUR HAND IN SEARCH OF ONE OF THE SPECIMENS YOU KNOW ARE HIDING. YOU CAN'T SEE SHIT IN THIS HOLE, YOU'RE GOING ON FAITH THAT THERE ISN'T SOME TERRIBLE BEAST OR MILLIONS OF SPIDERS DOWN THERE, AND THE WATER LEVEL HAS RISEN TO THE POINT WHERE THE BOTTOM OF YOUR HOLE IS ACTUALLY FILLED WITH SANDY WATER, CONCEALING ANYTHING YOU COULD SEE.
       THEN, YOU FEEL SOMETHING ROUGH AND SHARP STICKING OUT OF THE BOTTOM, LIKE A FINGERNAIL WITH TINY BARNACLES ALL OVER IT. YOU BRUSH YOUR FINGERS AGAINST IT, REASONABLY ASSUMING IT IS A CLAM, BUT HESITATING NONETHELESS. THERE IS A SICKENING SQUELCH-SPLASH NOISE, AND A SHORT STREAM OF MURKY WATER SHOOTS ONTO YOUR TINY FACE, INTO YOUR EYES OR NOSE OR WHATEVER. THOSE FUCKERS ARE DEAD-EYES, THEY KNOW WHERE TO SPIT AT A BOY– THE PLACES HE CAN'T HELP BUT WRITHE WHEN HIT, THE HOLES IN HIS FACE.
       SOME DAYS, YOU MIGHT SQUEAL OR YOU MIGHT TAKE IT LIKE A MAN BECAUSE YOU WERE HALF EXPECTING IT, BUT THE FACT OF THE MATTER IS THAT, ON THIS PARTICULAR DAY, YOU FLAIL YOUR BODY JUST SO THAT YOU KNOCK YOUR PLASTIC BUCKET OF SPOILS BACK DOWN INTO THE HOLE FROM WHENCE THEY CAME.
       AND SO, YOUR MOTHERS' DAY SHORTCAKE ESCAPES BY THE SPIT OF A CLAM. YOU DIDN'T EVEN THINK THEY COULD SPIT.
       FUCKING CLAM SPIT.