I remember a time years ago when my son and I were sitting on the sofa. The kid, as kids are wont to do, was harassing me by poking me with his elbow. When I’d had quite enough, I asked him to please stop jobbing me in the ribs.

The boy laughed at me, saying he would be happy to stop “jabbing” me, but “job” was not a word, at least not as I had just used it. It’s very hard not to hate smart children.

“It is too a word,” I retorted with poochedout lips. “Your Southern culture must be lacking, son.”

The first time I heard the word “job” as it applies to being poked or prodded was back in the 1950s. I was a small child seated next to my grandmother at a high school football game. Our hometown team was losing very badly, due in large part to the opposing running back, who ran wild and free (and mostly untouched) all game long. Late in the contest, as the athlete reeled off yet another huge chunk of yardage, the crowd began yelling the typical defensive urgings like, “Get him!” “Stop him!”

Grandma, a really avid high school football fan, took it a step farther. As the play ended, she jumped to her feet and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Job his damn eyes out!”

Grandma, lord love her, took her football seriously. I took Grandma seriously as well. I have been saying “job” and, truth be told, the occasional “damn” ever since.

Now, don’t go trying to tell me that “job” is merely an uncouth redneck’s way of saying “jab.” It is not. “Job,” as any intelligent Southerner should know, is a word unto itself. The terms are related, but “job” has a much stronger connotation.

For example, one may jab his finger with a fish hook, producing no more than a whispered “ouch.” Job the same finger, and you’ll scream like a banshee and bleed like a stuck pig. Jab a snapping turtle with a stick, and the belligerent reptile will pull its head into its shell. Job him, and he’ll bite the stick in half, along with your finger if he can reach it.

There have been many times when I have jobbed when I should have jabbed. I vividly recall one particular incident.

Driving through South Georgia low country awhile back, I happened upon a crowd of people gathered along the shoulder of a rural highway. I pulled over and discovered the object of everyone’s attention was a six-or-seven-foot alligator stretched out, immobile, in the middle of the road. The critter had evidently been attempting to cross from one wet area to another when he was shocked into semi-paralysis by the gathering onlookers. Once frozen, the gator wasn’t about to go anywhere as long as people were about, and the people weren’t going anywhere until the gator did something to give them a “show” for their trouble.

Enter Bob, the brave, all-knowing outdoorsman.

“I’ll get him across,” I smugly announced.

The crowd parted in awe. Here was a man, they obviously felt, who knew what he was doing.

From the bed of my pickup, I extracted a broken-off length of fishing rod about three feet long. I fearlessly walked up behind the petrified gator and, with a flourish, jobbed him in the tail, in a fashion that would have made my grandmother proud.

He moved, as I knew he would. Trouble was, he didn’t move in the proper direction. The suddenly animated reptile, rather than running headlong as he was facing, wheeled around to return from whence he came. The brilliant outdoor writer between him and his destination was not going to deter him.

The gator quickly turned and grabbed my jobbing apparatus. I did not contest his right to it, opting instead to leap upon the hood of the closest idling vehicle. My antagonist still had the broken rod in his mouth as he crossed the ditch and dove into the swamp.

The crowd broke up soon afterward, though most folks were laughing too hard to safely operate a motorized vehicle when they drove away. Later, I managed to muster enough dignity to climb into my truck and make my own exit.

Yep, a gentle jab would have probably moved the gator without incident. On the other hand, those who saw the show would likely agree that jobbing him turned out to be a whole lot more entertaining.

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream. net)