After I posted the last entry about my brother in law, I received a message on my answering machine; apparently papers are being drawn up at the law firm of Smith, Pittman, & Pittman, and I'll be in the poorhouse in no time.
The voice was muffled and suspicious though, so I've turned the message over to my niece, a future forensic scientist. She'll run the message through a schmancy DNA voice recognition transmogrofier silver powder combustion centrifuge cylinder machine, and, I suspect, point her finger at her own father in a matter of minutes. Won't his face be red?
Mr. Tough Guy.
Yeah, right. Here's a note my sister found this morning:
Anyone that pulls a stunt like this won't have the heart to drag me into court.
(I do wonder, though, what might be washed into MY sidewalk, if I keep this up.)