A long line of crazy.

Dear Nephew Callan,

Your mom recently informed me that you are showing definite signs of inheriting the dreaded Futrell sister unibrow.  As long as you don't adopt your mom's Mary Lou Retton do, or my punk (which was really just a glorified lesbian-ish mullet), while sporting the uni, you should persevere. 

I must be honest with you though. You come from a looooong line of crazy.  Your mother is just mildly crazy in comparison.  You have met your Nana, right?.  Nana can't help it though.  Her decendants, the Coulters, were train robbers.  Most were killed by vigilantes.  Or Indians. 

Nana's father, your great grandfather, taught your mom how to eat like a squirrel, our cousin to fetch the paper like a dog, and tried to give us all baby goats.

Oh, by the way, you're related to Ann Coulter.  Just deny it if anyone asks you.

Your Papa's family isn't much better.  While your great, great, great grandfather was the governor of Arkansas, he was also a boot-legger.  Not surprisingly, your great grandparents, Mimi and Papa, owned a liquor store, and had a slot machine in their basement.  Your mom and I grew up roller skating and playing the nickel slots in that basement. 

Sadly, we aren't on speaking terms with all of those cousins that we used to roller skate and gamble with, because some have an "alleged" propensity for smoking crack.  Oh, and managing apartment complexes so that they can break into those same apartments that they manage--you know, to support their habit, uh hum, "alleged" habit.
*Note that all family members discussed herein are considered innocent until proven guilty.

Fortunately for you, the coo-koo factor seems to decrease with each generation.  You may even turn out normal.  We shall wait and see...