A liquor store in Eureka Springs, AR, that I used to call on when I worked for one of our local wineries, was run by this big biker named Steve. With Steve, nothing was sacred and he loved a good joke. To get an idea of what he was like, one day when I went in there, Steve said, "Hey, got any fag jokes?" and I said, "Well, sure." and he said, "Well, tell that guy over there one. He's a fag." (and the guy was) so I walked over and proceeded to tell the guy a fag joke and we all laughed and no feelings were hurt. A few years later, Steve was killed while riding his bike home, when a deer ran into him. That weekend, there was a big memorial for him and my boss and I attended. Never had I seen that many people at a memorial for just a local guy. People were drinking and partying and swapping jokes, just like Steve was still there. The following week, when I went there to call on the store, while I was in there, the phone rang. Byrdman (one of Steve's employees and close friend) immediately picked up the phone and said, "Booze Brothers Liquor, Steve's dead." He later told me that if it had been the other way around, he was sure Steve would have said the same thing about him, at least he hoped he would have. And that's the way I am. When I die, I hope everyone at the funeral is having a good time, telling jokes and remembering me for the way that I always was. I've even thought about getting one of those joke "water squirting flowers" put on me in the casket.
