Having accepted the fetal position, Swain, 46, will spend the rest of his days curled up in a tight ball asking God over and over, “Why? Why have you done this to me?” And never once thinking to blame his stupid parents for buying the three-bedroom home he grew up in directly under those powerful, brain tumor-producing power lines.
Friends and relatives marvel at Swain’s cowardly battle with cancer.
“I’m sorry he has cancer and all.” Swain’s son Jonathan said, obviously embarrassed. “You’d think he could maybe summon a little strength to salvage what’s left of his fucking dignity. Man-up for Christ’s sake, you know? A fine example.”
“Owwwwohgodimgonnadie.” Was all Swain could manage through the tears.
Funeral arrangements for Swain are pending.