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It Runs In The Family

So I'm home for the fourth of July weekend. I was sitting in the bathroom this morning, taking a poop (first one was a tiny little ball, about an hour later I plopped a big brute) and what do I see on the floor? A note book with three columns drawn on it labeled "Date" "Food" and "Poop" in my brother's handwriting.
"Hey! Why are you recording your poop??"
"Mom wanted me to because I get this shits a lot."
I felt it was a moment of bonding, but my brother, who tends to refrain from emoting, just kind of shrugged it off.

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