We sit on our derrieres
We shit from our derrieres
We, rather than go into a lengthy poo ballad, that only I could find funny because there are things out there people that only, each one, to herself will laugh out loud to. With the way my mind works it focuses from one to another thing as though it were outstretched spaghetti almost reaching the wall it supposedly was to land on as described once in an infomercial to me. These infomercials are just damned informative. It can fold this way. You can wash it this way and then dispose of it. Poof! It all disappears with the click of a button. A switch is more, an apt word, than button. We button clothing. We switch on and off or on again only to get sucked into a strobed illumination of one brothers creation in the family living room.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On.
My brother always had a way of bugging me. I call it bugging because that may have been the word I most said next to Stephen or Mom or Dad. Then our dualling would begin. We would go underground not involving the parents in our war for supremacy over the house, inclusive but not exclusive to; the control of the TV remote control after supper, ice cream, fort building of all kinds including snow forts or pillow forts and lastly, control over the swings on the swing set nestled in the backyard.
Good times we had playing for hours in the snow piling it high only to dig it’s center out to create a snow fort. There was so much snow. So much.
Eric hurt his back at work yesterday. He’s home from work for a few days in the least. “A gable landed on me” he said. Took him to the doctor yesterday afternoon and his back is bruised with some muscle strain, slightly pink-purple with shades of blue appearing momentarily and this reads as though I’ve written a weather forecast about my boyfriend.
Moods are high with seldom whimpers while gusts of laughter roar up as he enjoys a showering of TV programming.
It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’ll be 33.
Kick kick kick! soooo back to bums. I have been linked to from a place called Smart Ass Farm. A PaperBullet on flickr has added me to her contacts. She contributes on Mondays to FecalFace. Once I thought a flip meant fart in the comments, however discovered that a flip is a finger, the central one, and had nothing to do with farting after all.
Weeee fart from our derrieres.
We even report about our derrieres.. goings ons. 😉