George Zoder Swafford

I'm getting sick of funerals. Three months ago, when Grandma died, I sort of suspected that Grandpa wouldn't be too far behind. That's just usually how it goes.

Zoder was one of the good guys. At the funeral, and pretty much since he had the first in a series of strokes, I've been regretting the fact that I didn't have more conversations with the man. He and I had more than a few things in common (work ethic not withstanding). He was a communicator and an artist. He was a guitarist, a public speaker of enviable talent and, apparently, a holy terror in front of a checker board. He also made a hobby of operating a ham radio. For those of you who don't know, ham radio was basically the internet before they moved the internet to the computer and all you trendy, little fuckwits jumped on the bandwagon.

Zoder grew up poor and hard just like a lot people who grew up in an time and place where clothing was, for the most part, somthing you inherited. I saw a picture of him at age 19. He looked like young Elvis. He worked a string of hard jobs. He built railroads for awhile. He lost part of a finger working a loading dock (although, he told people that he lost it one day when he went to pick his nose and booger bit it off). At one time he even worked a private investigator. Yeah, no shit, Zoder P.I.

Those were all just side jobs though. The church was his real calling. Zoder was a picture of what a preacher was suppose to be. In other words he was the opposite of the gay-bashing, damnation despensing, Jerry-Falwell-sounding, talking-head-of-the-religious-right image that immediatly comes to mind these days when I think about what a preacher is. Like I said, I didn't have enough conversations with the man. I couldn't tell you where he stood on a lot of issues. I can tell you that he was kindness. He was the pastor that carries your groceries for you if you can't do it yourself, remembers your name and will come to your house and fix your car for free (because, he was a mechanic, too). He was a reminder that religion is there to help people FIRST. This, of course, is where he honed his public speaking ability into an instrument that could be blunt or sharp or both in the same sentence if he wanted.

And then there was his infamous sense of humor. People say I inherited that from him along with the vanishing hairline. Fair trade, I suppose.

Zoder was a consumate smart-ass whose exploits are legend. The mention of it will make mom smile and roll her eyes at the same time. Here's a story my dad recounted at the funeral. Bear in mind, this happened the very same night mom brought dad home to meet the parents for the first time.

Why, later that night he made a bet with me. “Marion,” he said,
“I’ll pour a puddle of water out here on the linoleum floor and give you a
knife to hold in each hand. You sit right there with those two knives and
slash away at that puddle of water as fast as you can and I’ll bet you I can
wipe up that puddle of water and you won’t even be able to touch one of my hands
with one of those knives.”
I said, “You’re on, but just make them butter
knives. I don’t want to hurt you.” And so we went at it, me sitting on the
floor slashing away furiously with those knives, slashing a blade through the
water twenty times a second, him looking serious and intent with a white dish
towel in his hand. I slashed and I slashed and he just waited. I was
thinking, “No way he can do it. No way possible. Let him make
his move. I’ll get him.”
And, with me right in the midst of those
thoughts, he dropped the dish towel, grabbed me by the feet and dragged my poor
blue jean-clad backside through that puddle of
water.

Yeah, that was Zoder.

A Peter Griffin moment

I'm a little behind on the news. I just now heard that Christopher Reeves' widow passed away.

Obviously, I'm upset by the loss of life. For some reason, though, the first thought that jumped into my head when I heard the news was...

...do you think, maybe, when they were both still alive and, y'know, doing it, that he, like, ever called out her name mid-coitus and accidently called her Lois?

...

I don't know where these thoughts come from.

Because fuck'em, that's why.

Q: What beloved Arkansas passtime is also the name of a popular candy?

A: Blow-Pop!!!!

Martha Marie Swafford

And I didn't even know that 'Marie' was her middle name until today.

She was a hard woman. Not hard in the she'll-kick-your-ass sense, but hard in the you-can-give-her-cancer-four-times-and she'll-kick-it's-ass-every-time sense. She was hard in the pull-one-of-her-lungs-out-and-she'll-keep-ticking-like-the-energizer-bunny-into-the-next-century sense.

That isn't an exaggeration. She really did beat cancer four times. Kind of sad that she had to, though. She never smoked a day in her life, never drank. As a pastor's wife she was in church twice a week. She got plenty of exercise. She was conscious (hell, she was paranoid) about having a good diet. She smiled and laughed every day. She was the most deeply spiritual woman I think I'll ever meet.

She still got cancer four times. The last time she got it they really did pull a lung out of her and she really did keep going for fourteen years after. That's hard. I don't care who you are.

When she died last Saturday morning she was seventy-six years old and she weighed a pound for every year. So just this once, when people at her funeral turned to the ones next to them and said something like "she's better off", maybe they weren't spouting made-up bullshit.

I keep trying to remember an honest, heartfelt story of her. All that comes to me is a vision of me being very little (or at least feeling that way) while she sat on the edge of my bed and reduced me to frantic, horrified tears with her stories of how she thought Armageddon would play out. I can't exactly fault her. Her heart was in the right place. And, honestly, if she hadn't scared me like she did I never would have read up on the history of the bible and I wouldn't have the progressive religious views I hold now. She solidified (if not shaped) my belief.

Whether she meant to or not she helped teach me to seek truth for myself. I owe her for that.

But even if that sort of thing could ever be paid back it can't now, not to her and not where she is.

All I can say today is...

I'm sorry Grandma, I love you, we all miss you, we will see you too soon and not soon enough.

Later.

Actual Conversations Inflicted Upon Me

At work. With a patient.

Me: Hi, ma'am. Did you need something?

Patient: No.

Me: Oh, well, your call light was on.

Patient: I know.

Me: So you did push your nurse-call button?

Patient: Yeah.

Me: Ok, so what do you want?

Patient: Nothin'.

Me: Then why did you push the button?

Patient: No reason.

Me: You know if you keep doing that I'm going to throw you out the window again, right?

Different patient. Same night.

Patient: I want icecream.

Me: Ok, sir, let me check with your nurse to make sure that it's alright with your diet.

Patient: What are you, stupid?

Me: Excuse me?

Patient: You always gotta check everything with the damn nurse. Don't you know anything for yourself? What do they pay you for?

Me: Well you see, sir, I'm legally retarded. That's why they only give me nasty, old fuckers to care for. That way when I accidentally set one of their beds on fire and then piss on it to put the fire out, well, no one gets to bent out of shape. (Well, that's what I should have said)

At the bar. Talking to some girl. Very mattressable. Deaf as a post, though.

Her: WHY'D YOU BRING A BOOK TO THE BAR?

Me: I wanted to read. I thought it'd be quieter in here on Christmas.

Her: WHAT?

Me: I SAID-

Her: WHAT'S IT ABOUT?

(I hand her the book. She skims the inside cover.)

Her: THAT SOUNDS REALLY COOL. Y'KNOW I READ A BOOK ONCE.

Me: Reeeee-aaallly?

Her: YEAH. IT WAS ABOUT PABLO ESCOBAR.

Me: You're really hot.

Her: WHAT? IT'S SO LOUD IN HERE.

Me: I want you to lay on top of me.

Her: I SAID PABLO ESCOBAR! IT WAS REALLY GOOD!

Me: Do you need your salad tossed? I'm good at that.

Her: PABLO ESCOBAR!

Me: I'm so lonely. Some nights I get weepy thinking about old episodes of Joan of Arcadia.

Her: YOU KNOW? THE DRUG DEALER?

Me: But seriously, I will take you to the men's room right now and eat your ass until your eyes roll back in your skull and all you can do is drool and mumble like a brain damage victim.

Her: BUT YEAH, CHECK IT OUT SOMETIME. IT WAS NICE MEETING YOU. I'M GONNA GO TALK TO THAT GUY OVER THERE. EARLIER HE OFFERED TO TAKE ME TO THE MEN'S ROOM AND EAT MY ASS UNTIL MY EYES ROLLED BACK IN MY SKULL. I THOUGHT THAT WAS SO HOT. BYE!

Dave's back! And this time he's pissed off.

So earlier this year my friend Dave went to the World Series of Poker. What's the big deal, you ask? He didn't go as a spectator, jackass.

While he was there he was kind enough to blog the whole experience. This is probably a good read for any hold'em heads out there.

And it's probably also a good read for anyone who isn't a hold'em head because Dave has started blogging again and, despite whatever his mother may say about him, Dave does in fact have a sense of humor.

Go bug him for a while, you bastards.

A little pick me up.

You know those useless celebrities I'm always bitching about. I think I found a reason for them being on this planet. It's to remind the rest of us that we aren't completely fucking useless.

Sometimes I feel bad about myself because, if the apocalypse happened tomorrow, I probably wouldn't have a very useful role in whatever society rose from the ashes since I don't know how to hunt or fish or operate a diesel and I absolutely hate fighting zombies. I'd pretty much be the guy that didn't get to leave Thunderdome. Or I'd be a male prostitute. Whatever.

Then I look at Aston Kutcher and I feel like Charlton Fucking Heston. Some nights the only thought that allows me to get some sleep is the idea that while our evil robot overlords have me slaving away in their unobtainium mines, Cthulu and Beelzebub will be playing hackey sack with Britany Spears' charred breast implants.

...

Yes, I do realize I need to get out more.

A message to the person who hit me with their FRIGGIN' CAR!!!

So I got hit by a car today. What'd you do?

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean to imply that I was rear ended or that some one hit my car with their car. What I'm saying is that some one took their car and caused it to collide with my tanned, sculpted man-flesh causing me to say something like "Ow."

The driver wasn't going that fast. She was stopped at a stop sign and failed to notice that there was a pedestrian in front of her before going. Six blocks later when she realized that she had a human hood ornament hugging the the front of her car like Harrison Ford in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" (only without the girlish, panicky look on his face) she immediately stopped and got out to apologize.

I assured her that I was quite all right and that this kind of thing happens to me all the time and not to worry. I apologized for stepping in front of her car and said I hoped I didn't damage it to badly, being the solid thing I am. And with a wink and a grin I limped off trying very hard not to cry until she was out of earshot.

Once my heart rate returned to normal it dawned on me that the girl who'd just run me over was, in addition to being an awful driver, absolutely fucking gorgeous. And I didn't get her number. And if there is one situation in which a beautiful woman is obliged to give you her phone number, it's right after she hits you with her car. Right?

I swear, they're carving "MISSED HIS SHOT" on my fucking tombstone as we speak.

So, if you're a ridiculously hot girl and if you recently hit a ruggedly hansom bald man with your car and if you feel bad about it (which you should because my leg really hurts) then you should contact me through this blog. You should contact me because, I'm currently laid up in my apartment for the next six to eight weeks and I'm in need of a nurse and/or French maid to help me with, um, stuff (no formal training or experience required, uniform will be provided, I love you!)