On the Dotted Line, Of Course

Hot damn, I must be famous.

I signed so many items recently, there’s no way around it. I can’t think of any other explanation. Well, unless the explanation is that they weren’t “items,” they were documents. And people weren’t seeking my autograph, they were seeking my signature. And the “people” were our mortgage broker, the office of the seller’s agent, and the acting attorney.

Ok, so maybe my wife and I bought a house.

And we might have agreed to let the government harvest our organs before we die, I can’t be sure. I sat in a chair and signed my name so many times that the lack of sleep may have caused me to black out at one point.

I do remember this: I signed a document saying I agreed to continue signing documents after I left, just in case it was deemed necessary. At any time the attorney’s office could call and say something like, “Mr. Heppermann, we’re sending over a document that you must sign that says we can legally obtain all of your possessions the next time your credit card is run at Applebee’s.”

“But I love Applebee’s. What about their chicken dippers?” I’d probably say.

“Sorry. You signed a document saying you’d keep signing whatever we wanted you to sign,” he’d reply.

“Fine. Send it over.”

I also signed a document saying I’m somebody else. It seems that in the preparation of our paperwork, the attorney’s office spelled my last name with only one ‘n’. So instead of having us wait while they revised each piece of paper that had my name misspelled, they handed me a document that said I was Mike Hepperman as well as Mike Heppermann.

I clearly should have thought that one through before putting pen to paper. Now, if there’s ever some quack named Mike Hepperman who robs an orphanage and uses the money to buy pectoral implants, all the while leaving a huge paper trail of electronic transactions that say ‘Mike Hepperman purchased pectoral implants with money he stole from an orphanage,’ l could get arrested and sentenced to years in prison because six months prior to that I signed a document saying I was Mike Hepperman. Do you really think I stand a chance in prison if the inmates think my impressive pecs are surgically enhanced instead of the real deal? Crap.

But that’s what happens when you buy a house. They overwhelm you with paperwork and talk really fast through each page as you sign it. Sure, I own a house. But now I don’t know who owns me.