Unvoiced Bilabial Plosives

Twitter's kind of fun, but it's probably better for people who live beautiful, artistic, fascinating lives, like suttonhoo and martingruner. And for people who have text-friendly phones and text-friendly cellular plans. Does anyone want hour-by-hour snapshots into the life of a guy who spends much of his time in contemplation of the poop, the pee, and the puke? I ponder the color, the texture, the consistency, in all its variegated glory. For instance:

Was the cat pee on the carpet a dark enough orangey color to indicate possible blood in the urine and therefore yet another bladder infection?

How can the baby poop out neat little brown balls of clay that fall cleanly out of the diaper and into the toilet, and then a mere two hours later fill his diaper with a wet, sticky, multi-colored extravaganza that takes me fifteen minutes to clean up?

Could I have guessed a year-and-a-half ago, when Pops and I screened in the back deck, that the best part of the kitties spending so much time out there is that it catches most of the puke? Trex is much more stain-resistant than beige carpet.

Speaking of beige carpet, when I see that the boy's spit up somewhere because he has it on his chin and the front of his onesie, how is it that I can search and search and search for beige puke on a beige carpet without finding it, but a half-hour later when I walk barefoot across that same carpet, I'll unerringly step right in it?

Somehow it doesn't live up to suttonhoo's jet-setting, tours of the Field Museum and catching up with her friend in Singapore, or martingruner's bilingual cross-country skiing. I can only attempt to elevate my philosophical musings by using words like "unvoiced bilabial plosives."