The places I play the players chew. But they don't spit. I don't mind tobacco spitting as much as players who spit pieces of lung into a cup after hacking their chronic bronchitis-someday to be lung cancer-guts out. The rumblings from the depths of 500-600 pounds of guts with the added resonance of the effect of 300 billion cigarettes, all leading to the deposit of a hunk of oozing lung into a pink cup, was enough to put me on tilt. Yes, I tilted even though the player made a concession to his bronchitis-pneumonia-plague by smoking menthols instead of regulars during his affliction and only a pack an hour. At least he was comfortable in dirty sweats and a stained t-shirt and had his shoes off. I don't think he washed his hair, but you couldn't tell because his dirty hat sort of blended in to his skull and there was no clear dividing line between the shades of dirt. Yeah, I played at the Circus-Circus Reno one time. Short session.