The Church of Lost Souls

The family continues to grow

Looks like I do in fact have a half sister.  Is there any resemblance:

Besides the identical noserings.

Proud Papa

My haggard looking jalapeno plant has produced my first jalapeno!

Now I know how the rest of you feel when you see your kids for the first time.  *Sniff*

My tabasco pepper plant on the other hand is looking even more haggard, and to this point not produced dick.  Anyone have any advice on pepper plants?

Just another ho-hum day in the life

Yesterday I came across my adoption paperwork and learned the name of my biological mother.  (I was adopted at about a week old.)  A Google search of her name led me to an ad posted on an adoption database by a biological sibling searching for me.  I contacted the organization and asked them to pass along my details to the poster of the ad.  About a half an hour ago I received an e-mail from my biological sister.  Evidently my birth-mother passed away several years ago, and afterward her father informed her of my existence, which led her to reach out for me.

I'm not quite sure how to feel about all of this.

Top of the charts

Evidently that "Whale Whores" episode of "South Park" was a popular one; look how many people have been led to The Church because of it in the past 12 hours:

A quick Google search gave me a little more insight:

I can finally say I'm number 1!  At something.  (I do recall some years back being the first result for a Google search for "gay sex" something or another.  My mother was so proud of me.)

Oh well, fresh faces are always welcome.  Now I've just got to think of something interesting to say...

Visiting hours

Hung out with Dad today.  I started crying on the way to the cemetery -- I thought things were supposed to easier with time, not more difficult.  Once I got there I put down a towel and took a seat.  At first all I could do was cry and try to catch my breath.  When I finally composed myself I told him, "I don't know what to say, Pop."

It's pretty awkward sitting by a marker-less grave.  The stone isn't up yet and the only thing identifying it is a temporary name tag stuck into the ground in a plastic holder.  As well as the little American flag we placed there on his birthday. 

The splotchy grass, some of which is dead, and weeds rising from the soil do not make for a very dignified resting place.  But the environment was serene enough.  It was quiet; only the sound of kids playing outside of a nearby school filled the air.  I sat with Dad for about a half hour before I said anything else.  "Please don't shit on me," I pleaded with some sort of raptor curiously hovering in the air above me.  It struck me that Dad would be amused by that.  "Right on Pop, I'd think it was funny too.  If it happened to someone else."

Creepy Writes

Here Cormac, is this more like what you had in mind:

 

State of love and drunk

And grief.

I miss Dad terribly.  And am tortured that Dad went so slowly and horribly.  And had to suffer and terrifyingly wait until the end took it's time to come. 

Last night I was bummed out and decided to go visit him.  This morning I realized it was Saturday, the archaic fuckin' sabbath, and the cemetery was closed.  Fuck me in the ass with a Jewish star.

I can't even go visit Dad when I need to (without risking arrest for trespassing and being banned from the property).  Fuck me.  Fuck them even harder.  In the ass.  This Jewish cemetery shit is lamer than dark age lame.

I miss you, Pop.  I'd trade anything for a few minutes with you.  Or for you to have not suffered as you did on your way out.  I'd take that suffering ten-fold to have spared you.

I love you Pop.  I need you right now Pop.

Bathumor

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Happy 2nd birthday cousin Mason!

Wishing for tight lines, cold beer, beautiful eyes and a Dolphins' Super Bowl victory in his lifetime (Oh sorry, that was me):

To the birthday boy goes the spoils:

And a badass QUIET Harley trike:

Eat your heart out, Larry!  And ride on, Mase.

As cute as a battle axe

Mary the Doxie picked the wrong year to hitch her wagons to my engine, as they are derailing along with everything else in my life.  In the 9 months I've had her the poor thing's been to the vet twice to be treated for abscesses (one occasion she had three wounds surgically removed and stitched up, the other she received four staples to close one up), once for a nasty stomach thing (although that was after she ate poo so my hands are clean of that), and this week yet another time to have an ulcerated tumor removed from her undercarriage (still awaiting the pathology on it). 

But I've gotta give this little doggy credit, after some mild whimpering the day of the procedure she's back to her old self, despite all of the stitches holding together the large incision in her belly.  Running, jumping, stalking Josie the pussycat, playing with Mr. Lizard (her stuffed toy) and me.  Man, she's a battle axe is what she is.  I can't help but respect her toughness.

I shouldn't have expected anything else from my gangsta Doxie: