My Name is a Biblical Circus and I’m the Clown with a Halo (Askew)

Let’s dive into this holy hot mess. My parents, armed with the audacity of a televangelist selling miracle water, baptized me with a name so sanctified it could guilt-trip a gargoyle. First name: George (patron saint of “I’ll slay dragons after my nap”). Middle name: Johannes (props to John the Baptist, the OG influencer of locust snacks and river baptisms). Surname: Peter (the apostle who ghosted Jesus harder than a Tinder date). Combine them, and you’ve got *St. George St. John St. Peter*—a trifecta of piety so potent, I’m basically the Bible’s answer to a group chat gone wrong. 

The expectations? Biblical. I’m supposed to part seas, but I can’t even part with my Amazon cart. My ancestors? A parade of George-Johannes-Peters who treated “sainthood” like a Yelp review they forgot to leave. Great-Grandpa George III once “exorcised” a whiskey bottle by draining it. Grandpa Johannes II rode through a rebellion war on horseback, though rumor says his horse had better survival instincts than he did. And Dad? His garage sermons featured more F-bombs than a Tarantino script, usually directed at a carburetor that “had a demonic possession.” 

But hey, tradition is tradition! So I yeeted this sacred hot potato to my son. Plot twist!  The kid’s gay, which means: 
1. Heaven’s got a *fabulous* new interior designer. 
2. He took one look at our family’s “legacy” and declared, “Honey, I’ve Van Gogh’d this name masterpiece. Let’s not add a fifth George—this canvas is done.”

Fair. The kid radiates more divinity eating avocado toast than we’ve collectively mustered since the Middle Ages. 

So here I am, sipping a sacramental energy drink, whispering Hail Marys over my lost genealogical burden. St. John, if you’re eavesdropping: I’ll honor you by not eating bugs. Probably.

Amen.

**#SaintedNotSaintly #GodsFavoriteTrainwreck #DontBlameMeBlameGenealogy**

© Jurgens Pieterse. All Rights reserved. 2025