Does the Pope know how to use Photoshop?

Going through all of one's possessions, in an effort to figure out what is truly needed for survival and what is extraneous, is rarely easy if actual survival isn't necessarily at stake.

Sure, there are times that I miss WifeToBe so badly that I'm positive I'm going to DIE, but it's still hard to argue that my twin-turbo, 43-foot, slotcar track will ensure this survival.

When I look at it, selling everything I own isn't that big of a deal, so for any of you in the Denver Metro Area, keep an eye out for a Big Sale! at Casa de JuddHole. Plenty of wooden Hawaiian Fertility Gods, complete with spring-attached-as-big-as-his-goddam-body Penis, and 6-foot diameter Sombreros (It says \"Fiesta!\" on it... That means \"Party\" I think... or \"nap\" I forget) to be had for the right buyer.

You too could own the complete works of the 1896-series of \"Theatre on the Prairie\" or the \"Introduction to Physical Anthropology.\"

Christ, how did I get so much of this fucking crap?

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The house is the big-ticket item and it's sale, combined with my Migration Application, is the clincher for officially making me an Australian. This 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom, 1375-sq-foot, ALBATROSS has been on the market for 7 goddam months, and I'm getting a bit bitter.

I finally pulled out all the stops, I caved in to something I never thought I'd do. For as superstitious as I am, I'm not religious, but it was time. Something had to be done.

I went Catholic.

The legend of St. Joseph, and his house-selling abilities, is something I'd never heard of, nor thought I'd buy into, but I got me a 6-inch version of that Carpentering, Son-of-God Fathering, Keeping-her-a-virgin-even-after-marrying, dude and I planted him in my yard, upside-down and facing the intended Sale Property.

I had to fight the urge to vomit a little when I crossed myself and stamped down the last bit of turf over the little wooden icon, but I Believe baby. OH, I believe!

I have to, he's my last goddam hope.

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It's not looking like all of this is going to be taken care of by June, but I could stand it no longer, and booked a ticket back to my Love and the land of Oz anyway. I maxed out the remaining room on my last goddam credit card and put in for the time off from work.

Since it isn't The Move, I figured I didn't need to really tell anybody but my bosses and provide them the proper paperwork with the printed explanation for my trip as, \"Trip to visit wife.\"

BossGuy typically has a fairly warped sense of humor, and enjoys nothing less than calling me into his office under the auspices that my job is on the line only to tell me that we're doing Happy Hour at the biker bar up the road.

I'm always prepared for this, but when my Time Off Request Form came back to me with 3-inch red letters reading, \"DENIED, see attached\" I'll admit I was concerned.

Until I flipped the page and found this, with the caption, \"I don't want you leaving your One TRUE Love...\"

Which he oh-so-creatively fashioned out of this picture I'd so proudly shared with him.

That fucker is soooooo gonna miss me.

VPGuy dropped by my cube, no doubt drawn in by my repeated swearing and shouts of \"EVIL! He's fucking evil!\" and asked me if that was a picture of me and WifeToBe.

When I was done involuntarily shuddering and spitting, I showed him the actual picture and told him that I'll be coming back around in December with her in tow, after she's no longer \"WifeToBe\" and instead \"Wife.\"

\"You're gonna love 'er, dude, she's amazing.\"

\"Yeah? Well, she damn well better be,\" replying bitterly, \"She know that most of us here wanna punch her in the head?\"

That fucker's gonna miss me too. I can feel the love.

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Pops just emailed me a picture from our glorious day on Uncle B's boat. I could preface this with the fact that I caught 3 times as many fish as anybody else and their bitterness is clearly displayed in the ONE photograph they chose to share, but I don't have to. I know you guys trust me.

I know he looks small, but that rare breed of BiteJuddsNutsOff Shark would surely have grown into formidable size by the time I get back there and will undoubtedly take another unplanned swim off the boat.

I warned him not to fuck with me as I pulled the barbless hook out of his mouth and I barely cried like a bitch when his ungrateful ass still bit my finger anyway.

Next time I'm in Tejas, I'm planning on making friends with the Apache Pilots just in case I need an airstrike called in before my nuts get bitten off.

Never ask a man if he's Texan. If he is, he'll tell you. There's no need to insult him.

There are fairly common moments in my life where I have a thought that feels terribly inappropriate and I rarely, if ever, admit them to anyone. That's what's nice about having a blog, I can admit this shit to a thousand or so strangers and not worry about what they'll think of me.

As my plane was beginning it's descent into Austin and I was thinking about all of funeral shit that I was soon to be subjected to, my brain got instantly excited at the thought that I'd get to go fishing again with my Uncle B. I kept waiting for the grief and sorrow to kick in, yet all I really wanted to do was load up some Shiner Bock, some cigars, the fly-rods, and take his boat out on Lake Belton.

Now be cool, I'm not a complete heartless ass. I felt sad and shit at the funeral-planning session, when we had to go around and share stories of Gramma. I started in with her and her infamous \"walking farts,\" but after many a sharp glance from my dad and the pastor, I relented with the fact that she was the ONLY person in my family that ever remembered every single damn birthday of mine for 30 straight years. That zinger got Dad to hang his head.

HA! SternLook me motherfucker?

I was doing really well at being the good grandchild and all that shit until the pastor asked (*ahem* prodded, guilted, forced...) me to do \"a reading of scripture\" at the services. I'm about as comfortable reading from a Bible as I am from a book of Japanese Tax Laws, so when she handed it to me and I started shaking my hands and making sizzling noises with my mouth, she started to grasp the idea that I was going to be the token fuck-up in the group.

The funeral went surprisingly well, and I was more than happy to blend into the background behind my more flamboyant relatives (yeah, I KNOW), only nodding sympathetically and answering the barrage of questions that almost always opened with, \"So, you're really moving to Australia?\"

I'd done my time in my 10-year old cheeseass suit, the reception was going in full-swing... it was time to fish. Me, The Brother, and Uncle B loaded up as much Shiner as possible and headed out into the brisk early-evening. We'd been trolling, fishing lazily, and drinking heavily when WifeToBe called.

I'd expressed my happiness at the fact that she and The Mom got along so well, but now she would get the full-on Brother the Charmer treatment. She was tentative, at first, but I knew she'd warm up to him quickly when the background noise of him emptying his bladder off the side of the boat caused her to say, \"I can tell you're brothers, you pee the same.\"

For two people who talk so differently, they got along great, and The Brother and Uncle B got treated to our distinct brand of schmoopieness while we were repeatedly dive-bombed by a couple of Blow-The-Fuck-Outta-Middle-Easterners-And-Fishing-Boat Apache Helicopters.

Fort Hood is right off the lake, and despite the fact that I could make out the Pilot's eye-color as he kept swooping by, he failed to notice me giving his \"bird\" the \"bird.\" WifeToBe suggested that I should moon him, for she surely would were she there, but I reminded her of the existence of such a thing as Hellfire Missiles and my desire to keep them from protruding from my rectum.

Considering the circumstances that brought me there, I couldn't have been happier in that moment. My brother got to \"meet\" my fiancé, she still loves me and doesn't think I'm the retard that I am, I was drunk, smoking a cigar, and catching more fish than The Brother and my uncle. The only possible way it could've gotten better would've been if I'd have actually hooked the wheel struts of that fucking helicopter with the BigAss Bass Rod and scored a Jackie-Chan-style waterski ride.

Provided it didn't yank my arms from my sockets, that would've totally fuckin' rocked.