Buttwad Blue

My sister, as I’ve told you before, is about the funniest person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met some funny people in my time, let me tell you.

As those who have the misfortune of my recent acquaintance can attest, I don’t laugh a whole lot any more. I chuckle politely, and I’ll laugh as far down as my solar plexus. But the hearty belly-laugh has been elusive over the past months.

Until I received something in the mail from my sister this evening. Even her one-line e-mails can get me snorting, but this thing had me (and Jason and Eleni, who were here when I opened it) bellowing.

It’s a document sent to me to be notarized. I don’t really need to tell you that if you click on these images, a full-sized version will pop up in a new window, right? A careful read should bring you at least mild amusement if not the hilarity it brung me.

There’s one thing above that bears explanation. There is a reference to my parents. My father is listed as Peter Allison. This is true, and I am proud of it. He’s dead, my daddy. Katie listed his residence as “open to interpretation.”

My mother, on the other hand, has reassured me that she will live forever, or at least that I will predecease her. Oh, wait. I was the one trying to convince her of that.