My Birthday Roast of My Sister

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. We are glad you could join us tonight to celebrate the birthday of Younger Sis, the woman who has blighted, er, blessed the world with her presence for thirty-three years now.

I was two-years-old when I first met my sister. My mother was so large during her pregnancy that she worried she was having twins, but it was only Sis, entering the world at a whopping ten pounds. Even then, she apparently believed that importance is best demonstrated by size, a conviction to which she is faithful to this day.

She was born with white blond hair into a family of all brunettes, but no one in my recollection ever used the words “freakish genetic sport” or “failed government experiment.” Ah, hindsight. Maybe if we’d realized sooner, we could have spared the public schools all those wasted man-hours.

We were very proud when she was admitted to Wheaton College, “The Harvard of Christian-average-students-who-can’t-get-into-Harvard.”  There she met and married her saint of a husband, who through marriage daily increases his reward in heaven.  They were virgins when they married - he by belief and spiritual discipline, she by neglect and uncomfortable social awkwardness.  Way to go, Sis. We’re glad our faith could give your years of rejection meaning.

After graduation she spent a few months in the work force before deciding it was unworthy of her. She now spends her days in the overwhelming adoration offered by her five small children, who, unlike her previous employers, always respect her contribution and never take her for granted (snort). No doubt she is spending her birthday in luxury, admired and honored by throngs, only a few of whom will use her shirt as a tissue.

So happy birthday, Sis.  Don’t let that enormous family head of yours get in the way of blowing out the candles.