I was reading the news today when I came across a word I had not heard since middle school; ’gleeked’. For those of you not familiar with this charming bit of slang (which I personally have not heard uttered since I was in middle school in the 80’s striding around in my checkered Van shoes) ’gleeked’ is a form of spitting where instead of a hefty blob you instead emit a thin stream of saliva.
Personally, I could never do it. At least not on purpose. In middle school I hung around with some white trash kid by the name of Freddy who was a master at gleeking. The kid was like a viper; he could open his mouth any time and shoot out a well-aimed stream. Any object was a potential target and he took great pains to make sure his skills were sharp. Walking down the hall at school any piece of paper tacked up to the wall was rife for his attention. He would even do it in mid conversation, just walking along and talking to me when he would casually turn his head and gleek out a steam of spit directly on to some glitter-encrusted class president poster and then continue talking without hardly a pause. Even when he was not around I could see the ink running on some tacked up notice and recognize it as his handiwork.
His other claim to fame was shooting loogies at the ceiling. His favorite act was to get his mouth gummed up with a soda and some sugary treat and then hawk a loogie on to the ceiling. The loogie would then slowly stretch for an inch or so until all the sugar in it hit the air and crystallized, solidifying the entire thing into a permanent sculpture. It might hang there for days. He would gaze up at his creation, his eyes alight in awe at what he had wrought.
I do not know what happened to that kid. He probably lives in a van down by the river. Possibly still mastering his gleeking skills.
2026 Update
Setting the dial for March 2008, where Ed canonizes a middle-school human viper named Freddy.
Ah, 2008: a time when a skilful spit-stream on a class-president poster was just petty vandalism, not a bioweapon. Back then, the only camera pointed at Freddy was a flip phone with a grainy sensor; now every gleek would be uploaded to eight platforms before the drop lands, tagged with a challenge and a soundtrack, and Freddy would be internet-famous for about a Tuesday. School hallways no longer run on flimsy tacked-up paper as their information grid; they run on digital announcements, which are tragically resistant to spit art. The crystallized ceiling-loogie sculpture—that candy-sugar preservation technique—would now be classified as a biohazard incident, or at least a custodial overtime claim. We've also traded checkered Van shoes for sneaker bot resales, and living in a van down by the river now costs more in rent than a middle manager's mortgage. Honestly, the only constant is that certain boys still treat their bodily fluids as high art.
“2008 Ed, when Freddy left those glitter-encrusted posters weeping with saliva, did you ever stop to wonder whether you were documenting a legend or an early biohazard incident?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2008 Ed: So, Beelzebubba, you ask a fair question, and the honest answer is that back then I figured I was just watching a legend in action. Freddy was like a viper, sure, but also kind of a folk artist, and when you're thirteen you don't think 'biohazard,' you think 'man, I wish I could do that.' Now, with the benefit of age and a few years of working in a windowless room, I realize he was probably painting the whole school with a lovely collection of germs. But there was something almost beautiful about those crystallized loogies hanging from the ceiling like some sugary stalactites. I never touched one, but I sure stared. So maybe he was both: a legend and a walking petri dish. I just hope he's not gleeking on any innocent vans down by the river. Take that, foul germs.
