Wednesday, August 31, 2011


This was a completely original word made up by my sister and I. I've added it to

SNORBICLE: (verb) The mashing of the words "Snort" and "Cubicle".

It is what happens when you are at work (typically within a office-like setting, though not necessarily within a cubicle) and while browsing the internet you come across something that makes you laugh. However, due to the silent conditions you try to hold it back and it comes out as a snort. Your co-workers begin to look at you funny as you try to recover from the odd sound but also trying to enjoy the hilarity of the joke/picture/facebook post etc.

Also used as a subject line warning so you can brace yourself if sent by a friend.
"That picture of the lolz cats you sent me made me snorbicle, I'm lucky I still have a job"
"RE: Beware, SNORBICLE, funny kittens eating spaghetti"

Girl, You Don't Be Knowin' Bout Mah HAM DRESS

Not an actual "dress" per se, but still a little fancy for a night out on the town.

The Notorious Facebook Post About Hiding Poop

Why has this blog turned into a fecal fiesta?  I promise you there will be dick jokes soon.  And maybe some recipes.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, there's this:

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Poop Particles: A Response and A Defense

(This is my rebuttal to Jennifer's previous post: Poop Particles)

Poop particles can SO be conducted through the phone.  They travel like sound.  I'll get some sources on this asap.

Secondly, I made Jennifer sit outside the bathroom door while I pooped NOT to assist in some psychological or proximal way.  I made her do it for the following reasons:
  1. For most of my high school career, my daily constitutional began it's prairie-doggin' dance on the bus on the way home.  EVERYDAY.  So poop was happenin' on a regular schedule.  Fiber was my friend.
  2. Being the oldest of three and our dad not being home for another hour or two, I had responsibilities to take care of.  One of them was checking/opening the mail.  Another was holding the cordless phone (because I was IN CHARGE, that's why). 
  3. Pooping and eldest-kid-responsibilities required simultaneous attention. 
  4. Jennifer rules.  When she was awesome, she was AWETHOME.  When she was not so awesome, it was awethome to annoy her. 
So basically I made her sit there to amuse me while I pooped if she was being cool that day.  And if she wasn't being cool that day, I made her sit there to amuse me while I pooped AND made noises and generally grossed her out because it's hilarious when she gets all neurotic.

I have always asked myself:  How does someone with their pants around their ankles, covered in very important mail and cordless phones, MAKE someone sit on the carpet outside the door and hold a conversation with said pooper?

I guess the world will never know.  Maybe.

Poop Particles

I don't know what made me so germ-phobic when I was younger, but there was a rule....

Christina was NOT ALLOWED in my room (and especially not on my bed!!!!!) if she had just pooped. I had decided that "poop particles" followed her from the bathroom by way of her pants and she would bring them into my room thus infecting EVERYTHING!

There is also the routine she mandated....

When we got home from school I had to sit by the bathroom door and talk to her and keep her company while she pooped. I was quite the chatty Kathy at that age and had plenty of things I wanted to talk about.

".. we ate lunch and then Jessica made a face and we all laughed and then there was art class and I made a spaghetti and meatballs painting and I showed everyone that you really could eat it if you had a drawing of a fork..."

I yammered on and on until the germ-phobia kicked in.

" there I was on the playground and it was the coolest thing I ever.........hey.........HEY!!! I can HEAR you!!!!"

"no you can't" she says in a labored poop pushing voice

"YES I CAN! I'm leaving now!"

"Noooooo!" (like she needed me there or else the poo wouldn't pass. What am I? The gate keeper of the sphincter?)

Somehow..... she tricked me into staying, so I kept on blabbering, although keenly aware of further "pushing" sounds. I would pause everytime I think I heard a distinct labored grunt. Each time I would pause she would start laughing at me, which was followed by getting mad because I wasn't helping (what I was doing was causing her to laugh which in turn, was prohibiting the doody from coming out).

It was a weird situation to be in, I shouldn't be helping or hurting the chances of that potty making its way to its final destination. I shouldn't have anything to do with her personal, private toilet business, but somehow I was roped in each and every afternoon to this ridiculous routine.

I suppose it justifies my reasons for my ridiculous rule concerning "poop particles." I am now 26, and still firmly believe in "poop particles". 120 miles away the concept brings my sister to fits of hysterical laughter on the phone. And then she tells me that she's been pooping the entire conversation and that the poop particles are coming through the phone to get me!

Very smartly I reply with my argument:

"Christina, poop particles can't come through the phone cuz phones are for carrying sound, not matter, which poop particles are made of, duh"

Since "poop particles" doesn't have a page on wikipedia, and no further research can be done without bringing my sister to tears, I have no idea if my theory holds any water.

Cat in a Box


Story Behind the Poem

I bought a thrifted typewriter. Lord knows why I felt I needed it, but I put it to good use by sending my sister "faxes". I would type a mean spirited poem and tri-fold the paper in a business like manner and slip it under her bedroom door. The outside said "FAX FOR YOU". My thinking would be that it looked so official and business-like she couldn't NOT read it! I would wait outside the door until I heard her pick up the "fax" and read it. Soon she was sending me similar "faxes" under my door.

U smell-o.


U smell like spleen.
(which is bad)


Monday, August 29, 2011

The Poem That Started It All...

Dear Jennifer,

Pink, pink,
U stink.


(This is going to be a hilarious blog.  Just ask our friends.  We kill.)