The Good Catholic Page #2

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What?

No.

Why is that... what no?

Look, you gotta... you gotta

find something of your own,

something selfish

and stupid and...

Human.

Otherwise you just might wind up

like Victor.

What's wrong with that?

He wears his collar to target.

I mean, he literally

puts on his collar

to buy honey nut cheerios

and toilet paper.

Now, that's weird.

That's weird.

Don't... don't be weird.

And don't bring that sh*t

in the Lane!

Oh, do not bring that sh*t

in the Lane!

Do not bring that sh*t

in the Lane.

Yeah! That's what I am

talking about. Okay.

Mm.

Welcome to Hoosier basketball.

All the best, father.

Am I late?

I'm sorry, are you lost or...

This is Saint Martin's, right?

Mark's.

I'm Jane.

No, it's Saint marks.

The church.

I'm still Jane.

The person.

Daniel. Father Daniel.

Nice to meet you, father Daniel.

Nice to meet you...

Jane.

We're very far apart.

Permission to approach

the priest?

Uh, well, you don't really need

to ask permission, but...

It's... okay.

So what's the verdict, father?

Verdict?

Is it too late?

For...

Confession.

Oh.

You guys are open late

on Fridays, now, right?

You were the... uh,

one from last week.

No.

Yeah.

Maybe.

Yeah.

I recognize your voice.

Distinctive, right?

I'm a singer. I sing.

No big deal.

I'm good, though.

But let's not make

a whole thing out of it...

Confession was supposed to end

at 2:
00 and...

I can go.

No, it's just we're very...

Very big on rules around here.

It's cool. Really.

And so I think... I'll just

order some absolution

with my taco bell.

I meant... wait, I... I...

I can...

I mean, we can...

Thanks, father.

Daniel.

Can I call you Daniel?

Uh...

We'll figure it out in there.

So... maybe we should

start talking...

I can't do cremation, Daniel.

I just can't.

I thought about it,

and it's like...

What the hell was I thinking?

Maybe we should start with who

your... who's gonna dress me?

What?

Now that we're back

to the standard funeral,

I've got to think about who,

you know...

No way I'm letting

a creepy funeral-y guy

put me in some kind of

sad death smock.

And if my mom got involved...

My god.

She drives one of those

Mary Kay cars,

you know, those pink atrocities they only

give their most celebrated salespeople?

She'd have me wearing

a floral pants suit,

and she'd splash so much paint

on my face

that I'd look like

a transvestite,

prostitute version

of blanche Dubois...

Why are you here?

What?

I'm sorry, but last week,

tonight, why?

What do you mean? Is this really

about funeral arrangements?

You don't believe I'm dying?

Wha... that's not what I...

I mean...

Are you?

This was a stupid idea.

Jane...

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