POOP!!!
Haha, got your attention with that title, didn't I, you dirty little monkey.
My sister Julia and her husband Chris came over today for no apparent reason other than boredom. They brought their two dogs, natch, bringing the grand total to six, which is at least four more than a smallish house should be able to handle. The cleaning lady is here, too, vaccuuming, which makes sane(ish) dogs act like Andy Dick on uncut crack. This house is not nearly as restful as I would like a sunny Labor Day to be, goddurnit. Not that I'm not happy to see them, because I don't see them nearly enough while they are off buying and selling million-dollar houses and Mercedes and discussing interest rates and buying Sleep Number beds and mini-trampolines and just generally behaving like total grown-ups.
On a TOTALLY UNRELATED MATTER, HAVING NOTHING TO DO WITH SISTERS OR BROTHERS-IN-LAW, I'm gonna state something crazy here, for those who maybe don't like to think about it or are embarrassed by it, or maybe have some confused notion of the sanctity of the bathroom (when everyone knows it's just the lovely high-thread-count sheets that are sacred), that EVERYBODY POOPS. It happens. It happens frequently enough that people like to put it on bumper stickers and think that proves they're original and ironically funny when really it just proves they have access to $8.95 and a Spencer's Gifts. I, personally, don't poop nearly as often as I would like. My dog, on the other hand, seems to have an unending supply of poop, quite enough to festoon all our neighbor's gardens and have some left over for the dead center of the street. My Tripod friend Emilie (who NEVER calls me BACK, YOU BIATCH!) have developed wonderful communication with and about our poop, a consequence of traveling through Europe together for two months. We have learned just how to save it up to achieve maximum glooooorious poopage, because you just don't find that many poopable toilets in Greek train station. We are quite familiar with each other's ability to lose ten pounds in one sitting, and emerge refreshed and ready to resume drinking the metric equivalent of Lake Michigan in beer.
Something I find unceasingly interesting in a twelve-year-old boy kind of way is how many different kinds of poop there are. In junior high my best bud Sarah and I somehow got our grubby little Seadragon hands on "The Poop List," detailing quite seriously all these different kinds of poop you could have. Like "Rabbit Poops," those little pellet-y ones that seem to take hours yet leave you staring into the bowl going "That's it? I let my toes turn black from lack of blood supply, all for Cocoa Puffs?" Or the "Spinal Tap," the poop that hurts so bad you'd swear it's coming out sideways. We laughed so hard over that list it nearly killed us. That and our math teacher who was from New Yawk or somesuch place and when we were being loud she'd get our attention by yelping "Huullaaaawwww?" like a gerbil had just run up her ass.
I would also like to state, in case you're interested, that I said poop twelve times in this post. Thirteen if you count the title.
Oh, and if you also find poop funny, and if you don't I will never take a math class with you, go here.
My sister Julia and her husband Chris came over today for no apparent reason other than boredom. They brought their two dogs, natch, bringing the grand total to six, which is at least four more than a smallish house should be able to handle. The cleaning lady is here, too, vaccuuming, which makes sane(ish) dogs act like Andy Dick on uncut crack. This house is not nearly as restful as I would like a sunny Labor Day to be, goddurnit. Not that I'm not happy to see them, because I don't see them nearly enough while they are off buying and selling million-dollar houses and Mercedes and discussing interest rates and buying Sleep Number beds and mini-trampolines and just generally behaving like total grown-ups.
On a TOTALLY UNRELATED MATTER, HAVING NOTHING TO DO WITH SISTERS OR BROTHERS-IN-LAW, I'm gonna state something crazy here, for those who maybe don't like to think about it or are embarrassed by it, or maybe have some confused notion of the sanctity of the bathroom (when everyone knows it's just the lovely high-thread-count sheets that are sacred), that EVERYBODY POOPS. It happens. It happens frequently enough that people like to put it on bumper stickers and think that proves they're original and ironically funny when really it just proves they have access to $8.95 and a Spencer's Gifts. I, personally, don't poop nearly as often as I would like. My dog, on the other hand, seems to have an unending supply of poop, quite enough to festoon all our neighbor's gardens and have some left over for the dead center of the street. My Tripod friend Emilie (who NEVER calls me BACK, YOU BIATCH!) have developed wonderful communication with and about our poop, a consequence of traveling through Europe together for two months. We have learned just how to save it up to achieve maximum glooooorious poopage, because you just don't find that many poopable toilets in Greek train station. We are quite familiar with each other's ability to lose ten pounds in one sitting, and emerge refreshed and ready to resume drinking the metric equivalent of Lake Michigan in beer.
Something I find unceasingly interesting in a twelve-year-old boy kind of way is how many different kinds of poop there are. In junior high my best bud Sarah and I somehow got our grubby little Seadragon hands on "The Poop List," detailing quite seriously all these different kinds of poop you could have. Like "Rabbit Poops," those little pellet-y ones that seem to take hours yet leave you staring into the bowl going "That's it? I let my toes turn black from lack of blood supply, all for Cocoa Puffs?" Or the "Spinal Tap," the poop that hurts so bad you'd swear it's coming out sideways. We laughed so hard over that list it nearly killed us. That and our math teacher who was from New Yawk or somesuch place and when we were being loud she'd get our attention by yelping "Huullaaaawwww?" like a gerbil had just run up her ass.
I would also like to state, in case you're interested, that I said poop twelve times in this post. Thirteen if you count the title.
Oh, and if you also find poop funny, and if you don't I will never take a math class with you, go here.
posted by Laura at
2:18 PM
1 Comments:
I am passing on props to you from my mom. She said she laughed so hard she almost cried when she read this post. She also thinks you are a great writer.
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