Don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been here for years…

So, Cecily wrote a blog last night and ran it by me. It was pretty funny. I contributed like .000001% of an idea to it, and so I figured I had better write a little something something myself... I mean we can't all get pooped on, but I've got stories... oh, let me tell you, I've got stories...

Like... did you know that the word poop comes from the Latin term Puppis, which is that raised part in the back of a boat, aka the poop deck. I always thought that it came about the other way around. I guess I just figured that those poor pirates had nowhere else to go on the boat; so when nature called they took it to the back of the ship... swabbing the poop deck just isn't as gross anymore.

Speaking of Latin, I have a test on Friday. "O Latine, Moriere! Moriere! MORIERE!" I hope none of the originally intended sentiment in that statement gets lost in translation. Although I do hope that my translations on the test get lost in my professor's office so that he is forced to give me an automatic "A". And so that he doesn't laugh at me when he grades it.

But a overweight and classically nerdish professor laughing at me alone in his office isn’t quite as bad as my whole nerdy rhetoric class laughing at me to my face, as they did a week ago when I came to class with two bags of ice strapped to my butt. It wasn’t the bulge under my sweatpants that was so bad, but the puddle that filled my seat by end of class. I stood up, my saturated rump sagging behind me, and tipped my desk as a river of “water” spilled onto the floor. In the midst of shocked expressions and stifled laughter my only defense was to pull down my pants… okay, so I was wearing spandex underneath. The point was to show melted ice was the responsible party and that I didn’t need depends. Yet. Still, because of a strictly enforced honor code, the spandex exposure didn’t go over well either. Needless to say, the desks around me stay strangely empty these days.

Hopefully we’ll have more luck keeping people around our blog… but I’m not holding my breath. I’m not holding anything. Except when I’m in rhetoric… I’m holding it.

It's a bird, It's a plane, It's a blog... nope it was a bird.

So, the lack of our blogging is such that we’ve probably completely lost readership. Sad? Yes. Mostly because, our lives are still pretty hilarious and worth documenting. We keep talking about potential blog topics, but because of this Cannon Center trip, or that new episode of Hannah Montana, they’ve never become reality. So what is the inspiration for today’s post after such a long lemmon peel drought? Well, I became the sad, innocent, and completely unsuspecting target of some airborne creature’s waste yesterday. In other words, I was pooped on by a bird, or some kind of UFP: unidentified flying pooper. Or perhaps UFC sounds better: unidentified flying crapper. I don’t know, you decide. The point is, I haven’t been pooped on since 7th grade. For all you who were fortunate enough to attend, or have seen Willis Jepson Middle School, (ah, such a gem. Nay! A diamond in the rough), you know about the unusually large population of seagulls who stalk the school waiting to crap on pubescent, self-conscious, pre-teens, and/or eat the left over lunches that litter the quad every day. It is in this setting that 12-year-old Cecily is enjoying her lunch, proudly wearing her Twisters soccer team sweatshirt, in preparation for Jepson’s team try-outs set to begin right after school that day. Somehow that poor seagull, sick with half-eaten chick fil a’s and pizza, managed to poop both on the front and back of that sweatshirt. Talk about a good omen for the beginning of try-outs. The rest of the day was spent sweatshirt-less, and my locker quickly adopted the seagull poop as its new aroma of choice. The real hero of the story however is mom, who had to wash the sweatshirt when I got home. And she had to comfort me when I was cut from the team a few days later. But yesterday’s encounter with crap was softened by the fact that my WHITE winter coat, is surprisingly easily cleaned. Seriously though, do those birds aim? What cruel fate attracts disaster to white clothing and recently washed cars? Aren’t birds migrating right now? I ran in 15 degree weather this morning, shouldn’t I be migrating right now? I suppose it isn’t always the bird’s direct doing. Let’s not forget mom’s legendary poo-flicking accident which resulted in some absorbed reader’s yogurt getting a little something extra (if you know what I mean). All in all, I decided it was a sign: It’s time to blog. So welcome back lemmon peelers. Welcome back.