I thought that in celebration of the upcoming Christmas season I'd blog about puke and the weak-stomached today. Because nothing says Christmas like chicken poop and munched on paper.

I've actually got a pretty strong stomach. Other people, less so. Oh sure, there are a few things that make me want to hurl (don't ask about the jambalaya that had shrimp tail scales in it. Or fish bones) but for the most part I can deal with weirdo stuff.

Have I ever mentioned that I have a craving for lasagna when I watch the Walking Dead? Because seriously, those zombies are like giant human-shaped sacks of lasagna. Although I will admit that this year they're somehow grosser and eviler. But I digress.

I like to pay the "I'm an Awesome Sister" card, but honestly, there were certain things I liked to torment my brother with when we were kids. He had the weakest stomach of anyone I know. I'm not even kidding.

It's really too bad he doesn't read my blog.

Trevor had this thing with wet paper. It made him physically gag. I'd be lying if I said I never bit the corner off a piece of paper or a napkin and munched it and then stuck it through my lips at him to make him heave. I'd also be lying if I said I never did it to the point where he had to leave the table at a restaurant to go to the washroom and throw up.

This shouldn't be making me laugh like this. I should really feel bad.


I remember pestering our farm yard bantam chickens when their eggs were hatching because we were so excited to see the chicks. One time we inevitably managed to irritate a chicken to the point where she took the chicks that had hatched and abandoned her nest. My dad took the rest of the eggs (there were 3 or 4) and laid them on the inside of the opened oven door to keep warm and hatch the rest of the way on their own. That night we were eating supper. The chicks were huddled on the floor in the furthest corner of the kitchen (the house was about 600 feet so I suppose it wasn't that far). From across the room, Trevor catches a glimpse of a tiny blog of chicken poo, before running to the bathroom to . . . you guessed it.

But the very best, the very meanest (You can tune out of here if you want, the rest isn't pretty) was the thing with the cows calving. The first time we saw a cow give birth after moving to the farm (he probably wasn't 8 yet), Trevor had to duck out to go and be sick behind the barn.

And then he came back and watched what the cow did with the . . . let's call them "leftovers" and I'm pretty sure it just made it all worse.

You'd think it would be done there eh?

It was just too funny.

I bet now, still, years later, I could still sit next to him at the table while eating a delicious family dinner, and when our parents weren't paying attention say "Psst, hey Trev," all nice and quiet, and when he looked at me I could whisper "...afterbirth" and still watch his shoulders heave with disgust.

Not even kidding.

He just made it too fun .

And once the word was out there he couldn't just not sit there and picture it until he turned completely green and physically gagged until someone yelled at me.

Good times. 

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