Our older sister is wonderful.  At least, that�s what all of our teachers have told us over the years; they had her before us of course, and she made quite an impression.  Every single teacher we�ve ever had has had her first, liked her better, and felt that she had a more pleasing odor.  She was valedictorian of her high school class, graduated cum laude from Duke, and is worshipped as a god by the indigenous peoples of Micronesia.  According to our mutual senior English teacher, she single-handedly revealed the flaws in standardized testing by failing to make a perfect score on the North Carolina Writing Test.  He took care to mention this fact at least once a week, every week for the entire semester; he did manage to contain himself for ten minutes of the first class before it burst out.

We love our sister.  How could we not?  She�s perfect: she cooks, she cleans, she sews, she binds books, bakes complicated French pastries, reads her Harry Potter fanfiction in German, and makes that Martha Stewart chick look like a shabby little housewife in curlers.    She walks on water, ministers to the desperately ill, and can even raise the dead; we�ve heard that she can also whip up a decent bloody mary, but that doesn�t seem very like her�any bloody mary that she made would be the best bloody mary that ever maryed.  Or bloodied, even.

So, if you ever need your tires rotated, your crops blessed, a fifty-page paper on the symbolic meaning of jelly donuts in The Berenstein Bears and Too Much Junk Food, or the meaning of life distilled into one pithy phrase (perhaps in Aramaic?  With a tangerine?), just call our sister.  She�ll be there in a second, and she won�t accept any payment for her help.  Because she�s perfect.
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