Maturity

My dad and I are the designated Family Historians for our particular branch of the family. Both of us [sort of] speak French to an extent, so we're working fairly exclusively on the French line of the family (yeah, I'm French - wanna make something of it American pig-dogs?). This means reading extremely flourishy, faded, and headachey old records from the 1700s for HOURS, which has the same effect on our brains that Halloween candy has on the brains of 5-year-olds. Being the pillars of maturity that we both, are we never *ever* make fun of any of the hilarious French names we find; and we certainly don't giggle like school children in the corners of the archives while the more elderly patrons frown upon us, too polite to slap us upside the head.

But if we were of the ridiculous sort of people who make fun of names from foreign countries, we might laugh at names like, say, Pigache and Le Coq (pronounced like "pig-ash" and "luh cock" respectively). If you don't see the humor, that means you have never experienced that state of surreal hysteria brought on by spending hours sitting in a tiny room, staring at microfiched copies of the handwriting of provincial 18th century priests. That or you've reached a maturity level beyond age 5.

At any rate, the winner of the giggly-name contest is by far the town of Pissy-Pôville, for obvious reasons. Reading this name reduced my father and myself to a state of giggles and snorts, such that will never be surpassed in that family history center. I wish you all the delight that can be found by forcing a tired brain to stare at microfilmed records for hours on end, until every thing seems like it would be an awesome joke - only to find a name that really *is* an awesome joke.

Incidentally, we are certain Pissy-Poville is the ancestral home of Ms. Pootie Pootwell, for rather apparent reasons.