My first attempt to alienate readers

I have lost keys, my bearings, countless gloves and—too often—my temper, but I’m proud to say I never “lost” my father. He died. D-I-E-D. I know, I know. A lot of it has to do with cultural differences, which--let me reassure you--I celebrate. Still, why is the "D" word so difficult for people to say?

Whenever someone mentions “losing” a loved one, I have to restrain myself from asking if I can help find said missing person. “Well, let’s see. If you were a father, where might you be?” I know exactly where my father is: six feet under. Dead. As sad as that is for me, the vision of him wandering around, unable to find his way, is infinitely more unsettling.

My father hasn't "passed on," either. Like most dead people, he is incapable of speaking, so I'm certain he hasn't "passed on" any wisdom or jokes since he took his last breath on July 12, 2002. In fact, the only sound he's making now is the sound of silence. Dead silence.

Want to get me going? Simply ask, “When did your father pass?” Pass what? The salt and pepper? Gas? A kidney stone? Go?" Or ask if my dad “passed away.” I'll answer in the affirmative and recall how he “passed away" countless hours watching old movies on t.v.

Death euphemisms. They’re killing me.