Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Just Very Very Beautiful Women and Me




I feel a deep yearning to start a support group where I can share my feelings and vulnerabilities with people who experience the same insensitive treatment that I do. This would be a very exclusive support group. Membership would be open only to very very beautiful women and me.

Because a lot of times I hear cripples talk about how when they’re out and about on the streets, they feel invisible. Sorry, but I don’t understand that one at all. If anything, when I'm roaming the streets I feel hyper visible, like there’s a reverse Where’s Waldo type of thing happening. Just take one look at the aerial snapshot of the teeming crowd and the first thing you’ll see is me.

And I also hear cripples complain a lot about how other people crane their necks staring at them. Again, my experience is the opposite. I find that people crane their necks trying to pretend like they’re not staring. Like for instance, I’m in line at a fast food place. I make sudden and unexpected eye contact with the guy across from me in the next line. He quickly looks away and pretends to be endlessly fascinated with the napkin dispenser.

Whenever this happens to me, I imagine that it must inevitably happen all the time to very very beautiful women, too. I know how guys are. Through years or practice, mostly trial and error, they’ve all refined their technique for sneaking a peek. Peek sneaking, be it at cripples or at beautiful women or miscellaneous, has become a lot easier with the advent of smartphones. You always have a trusty device nearby that you can whip out and pretend to be staring at while you’re really staring at something beyond.

This is why I often feel a sense of warm solidarity with very very beautiful women. I want to bond with them and derive mutual comfort. Now of course I won’t deny that my experience as a crippled white male is not exactly parallel to that of a woman. The difference is most apparent when I pass a construction site. There’s something about the vibe of a construction site that makes some men ditch all sense of decorum and say exactly how they feel about passing women. They’ll say something crude like, “Oooh mama! Gimme some of that!”’ But as far as I know, construction workers never say exactly how they feel about passing cripples. If they did, we’d be hearing stuff like, “Hey cripple, you make me feel a great sense of anxiety because you remind me of the fragility of human existence and how I can join your ranks at any moment and thus becomes increasingly dependent on the rapidly-eroding social safety net! So get lost!”

Nevertheless, I still think forming a support group for very very beautiful women and me is a great idea. And I know there are many other cripples out there who would benefit from being a part of my group as well. But screw them. Let them form their own damn support group.




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Monday, February 13, 2017

Trying to Confuse my Wheelchair or A Man Without a Demographic


You see one day last summer I went into this boutique that sells women’s lingerie. I was just in there for a few minutes and I didn’t buy anything. The only reason I went into the place was that I was being stalked and I wanted to throw the stalker off the scent.

I wasn’t being literally stalked, just virtually. I just got this new wheelchair at the time and there’s a display window on the drive box that shows the time and date. And every once in a while a warning appears in the display window commanding me to update the time and date. And chair won’t move until I do it.

Why is it so urgent that the time and date always be current? I surmised that it’s because, like everything else these days, my new chair must contain a secret tracking devise that constantly monitors and records my whereabouts.

Why would the government waste time and money spying on me? That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s the government that’s behind it. I think it’s an even more evil entity with a sinister agenda and elaborate spy apparatus, like maybe Google or Facebook. They made a deal with the wheelchair manufacturer and they’re watching my every move with their tracking device so as to determine my demographic so they can bombard me with the proper barrage of targeted ads on the internet.

And I resent that. My demographic is none of their damn business. And just what the hell is my demographic anyway? I like to think of myself as a man without a demographic. Demographics are dehumanizing. They’re a pigeonhole, a trap. So whenever I catch myself settling too comfortably within the constraints of a certain demographic, I try to engage in some form of undemographiclike behavior, just to keep myself honest. Being a man without a demographic in a capitalist consumer culture can be lonely. It’s like being a man without a country. Your demographic is your home, the place where you find the comfort of community and your sense of identity. A man without a demographic is an expatriate. But oh well.

But you can’t give a virtual stalker the slip like you can an actual stalker. Wherever you go, it goes, like a shackle. The best you can do is confuse it. So when I’m out and about in my wheelchair, I take a lot of detours. I drop in places I would never otherwise ever go, such as American Girl, a Baptist church or a fitness center. I’m doing it to confuse my wheelchair. And then maybe those nosey bastards trying to figure out my demographic will write me off as a lost cause and leave me the hell alone.



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Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Wingman

A guy of about late high school or early college age came out of a bowling alley. With him was a female of about the same age . Between them was a Down Syndrome dude, probably the same age, carrying a bowling bag.

And I immediately jumped to conclusions. “Wingman!” I said to myself when I saw the Down Syndrome dude. I knew what this was all about. I was once an unwitting wingman. It happened a lot to me and the other crippled campers at Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp. They called the teens who tended to us our counselors. And there were some counselors there whose primary purpose for being at Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp was to end up “in the bushes.” That’s what they called it when counselors went off to copulate because that’s literally what they had to do. They had to find a secluded spot in the bushes somewhere. And if they got caught in the bushes by camp staff they were kicked out of camp.

The counselors who were using me as a wingman were the ones who called me stuff like “sport” and “tiger” as they rubbed my head and messed up my hair. They were attentive as hell when females were around because females are really impressed with that sensitivity stuff you know. They eat it up. When you’re a kid you don’t really think about it. You just like the attention being a wingman brings you. But when I got to be old enough to figure out what it all means, I resented the wingman treatment because the last thing I wanted to do was facilitate somebody else’s trip to the bushes. I hoped that by some miracle I’d get some of that bush action myself. In fact, I wanted to be the first cripple to be kicked out of Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp for being caught in the bushes. That would’ve made me the legend of all camp legends.

Thus, I felt a sense of wingman solidarity with the Down Syndrome dude. He looked like he was at the age where he would feel that same resentment. But then it hit me that I was engaging in some pretty awful stereotyping. Why did I automatically assume that the Down Syndrome dude was being exploited as a wingman in this situation? I mean, why couldn’t it be the other way around? Maybe the Down Syndrome dude was the one trying to move in on the female. And maybe he invited his poor uncrippled friend who doesn’t have a girlfriend along on their bowling date just to show her how compassionate he is. I guess subconsciously I didn’t think a Down Syndrome person was capable of such a thing. I really sold that guy short.

I learned a lot about myself that day.



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Monday, January 30, 2017

Smart Ass Cripple's Adolescent Clinical Research Trial Fantasy

I guess I was a weird adolescent. Because back in those days I saw a lot of crippled kids on television, especially during telethons and shit, pining for a cure. It was like the sad dog montage on those ASPCA commercials. Cripples doing nothing all day but hoping this will finally be the day when a clinical research trial for a cure pops up so they can drop everything and immediately sign up.

But for some reason, I was never one of those cripples. If someone came up with a pill that was guaranteed to instantly cure me, with no additional effort on my part other than swallowing it, I supposed I might get in line to take it. But until then, I had other stuff to do. As a teenager, I wanted what every teenager wants. I was much more concerned with getting laid than getting cured. And no research lab was trying to come up with a pill that would help me get laid. There was no heartbreaking montage on television of crippled youth who were sad because they couldn’t get laid.

Now if there had been a clinical research trial for something like that, then hell yeah, I sure would have dropped everything to sign up! Seeking horny adolescent cripples who want to get laid for participation in a research trial. I’d stomp over all the other cripples to be first guinea pig! I wouldn’t care what the treatment was. Take a pill that causes me to emit pheromones that attract females? Chromosomal manipulation to make me irresistible? Whatever! I’m game!

First they’d make me sign a consent form that says among the potential treatment side effects are dizziness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, migraine headaches, sudden tooth loss, renal failure, seizures, terrifying psychotic hallucinations, early onset Alzheimer’s and crotch rot.

“Sounds like a no-brainer to me, “ adolescent me would have said. “Where do I sign?” And maybe, as was often the case with research subjects, I’d even receive a stipend. Getting paid to get laid? Paradise!

My room at the research facility would be like a super cool bachelor pad— a heart-shaped waterbed, champagne on ice, mirrors all over the place. The research assistants in their white lab coats help me transfer into the hot tub. They give me a pill and leave. A few minutes later, a buxom woman enters through the bead curtain. She wears a negligee. Her eyes are filled with burning desire. She approaches the hot tub.

But then, at precisely the wrong moment, it would’ve occurred to adolescent me that all those mirrors are probably two-way mirrors and all those research perverts in their white lab coats are watching me from the other side and getting their jollies! I’d be too self-conscious and distracted to perform and I’d be written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project.

Or the other likely scenario would be me in the hot tub and the woman enters but she’s not the tiniest bit interested in me and nothing happens. I’m written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project, but at least it’s not my fault. I was in the placebo group.

I guess I was a weird adolescent.



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Wednesday, January 25, 2017

A Box of Frozen Burgers and What it all Means

I open a box of frozen burgers. And inside they’re all exactly alike. They all have the same thickness and diameter. They even have the same two grill marks in the same place, running diagonally across the surface of the burger like the tracks of a tiny tank.

There’s a story behind all this and I know what it is. Once upon a time, a few years back, there was a cripple who went to art school. This cripple didn’t even bother to ask the state vocational rehabilitation office for financial aid because the state vocational rehabilitation office does not encourage delusional endeavors like attending art school. But after the cripple finished art school, he broke down and asked the state vocational rehabilitation office to help him find a job. He knew it was a long shot to expect them to find him a job using his art skills. State vocational rehabilitation usually set cripples up with assembly line jobs where they tightened a screw on some gadget passing by on a conveyor belt and the cripple got paid something like three cents a screw.

But the cripple with the useless art school degree was desperate so he gave state vocational rehabilitation a shot. And much to his surprise, he got a job using his art skills! So he reported to the frozen burger factory, whereupon he was issued a paint brush, an industrial-sized can of black food coloring and a stencil. And then he assumed his position on the assembly line and whenever a burger entered his sector he had exactly five seconds to slap the stencil down on it, paint a quick swoosh of black food coloring and lift the stencil, thus creating perfectly uniform grill marks each and every time! And the crippled artist was probably paid something like three cents a burger, if the burger passed inspection.

But I don’t think this story ends with happily ever after. I bet it wasn’t long before the cripple felt artistically stifled and began doing subversive things that will quickly get a guy canned, like introducing elements of abstract expressionism into his grill marks. Or maybe he tried to organize a union, United Underpaid Cripples.

But even if the crippled artist successfully suppressed himself enough to keep his job, he was still probably replaced by a state-of-the-art grill mark stamping machine. The only thing that will work for less than a desperate cripple is a machine. Or maybe he was replaced by a robot that’s programmed exclusively to paint perfectly uniform grill marks on frozen burgers each and every time. The only thing that will put up with more shit in the workplace than a desperate cripple is a robot.

Or maybe the entire grill mark painting operation was outsourced to cripples in China.



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Sunday, January 15, 2017

Flying Port-a-potty Adventures

I’m not saying that accessible double wide port-a-potties aren’t a good thing. Cripples, like all God’s children, have to pee.

But the last time I went into one of those I had a really harrowing adventure that taught me a serious lesson about life. I had to pee like a horse so I rolled into an accessible port-a-potty and latched the door. Well then suddenly a big storm kicked up and the port-a-potty lifted up off the ground and felt like it was hurdling through the air. I was scared shitless, hanging onto the grab bars for dear life for what seemed like an hour but it was probably only about 30 seconds.

The port-a-potty landed with a thump. I opened my eyes. No more storm. I was still alive! When I opened the door there was a blinding blast of sunlight. A bunch of people were staring at me suspiciously and none of them was more than three and a half feet tall. It was a strange village where the buildings sort of looked like the Kremlin made out of gingerbread.

"Wow!" I said. "Munchkins!

The little people in the front of the pack then pulled out machine guns and their commander said, "Don't you EVER call us that!" He ordered me to come out of the port-a-potty slowly and not try to any funny business or else. So I did what he said. He stepped up and looked me over.

“Are you a terrorist?” he said

“No!” I pleaded. “I was just trying to take a piss!”

He scowled and told me no one was allowed to be within the borders of this village if they were more than 45 inches tall. I recognized his face. He was the leader of that radical movement of little people nationalists who believe that the establishment of a separate homeland for little people is the only way for them to be liberated from the “tyranny of heightism.” It looked like they finally achieved their utopian dream and here I was crashing their party. So the commander ordered me banished and the armed little people marched me to the border, giggling as their bayonets poked me in the ass.

They slammed the village gate behind me and there I was, stranded. The only road was made out of yellow cobblestones, which really sucked ass because have you ever tried rolling a wheelchair over cobblestone? It’s like roller skating on gravel. It especially sucks when you have a full bladder, which I did because in all the commotion I never did get around to taking that piss.

So there I was slowly bumping my way down the cobblestone road when I came across this silver statue. It sounded like the statue was trying to tell me something but I couldn’t make out what it was saying. I got closer but I still didn’t understand. It sounded like he was saying gong or kong or maybe dong. Then I noticed that on the ground by his feet was a bong. That must be what he wanted! So I lit up the bong and held it up to his mouth. But he could barely move his lips, let alone take a hit and a tear rolled out of his eye. So I took a hit and blew the smoke in his face and soon his face loosened up real good and he said, “Oh thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! You’re a saint! Gimme more please! Moooore!” So I kept taking hits and blowing smoke in his face until his upper body was loose enough for him to do the bong himself and he took more and more hits until he was as limber as a ballerina. The silver man told me that he had real bad arthritis and the only thing that makes him feel better is smoking pot. He said last time he had a flare up he dropped his bong and couldn’t reach it and soon he stiffened up and got stuck in the position I found him. But after a few hits he started singing and dancing about how the thing he wants more than anything in the world is for pot to be legal so he can smoke it in fucking peace. Then he asked me what I wanted more than anything in the world. I said I just wanted to take a piss.

The silver man said there was this dude in charge of everything called the wizard and he lived up the road and maybe if we went and talked to him he’d make pot legal and give me place to take a piss.

I don’t remember much about what happened next. I seem to recall something about a talking lion and hot air balloon but who knows because I took so many hits off that bong I couldn’t tell what was real from what wasn’t anymore. I still can’t.

All I know is eventually I found myself home in bed. And as I looked around my familiar, comfy room, I realized something important about my life. It’s boring. It’s always the same old shit. No flying port-a-potties, no diminutive militant nationalist, no dancing silver dudes with killer weed. Just the same old shit. Boring.





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Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Congratulations Muslims?

It’s hard to say what I feel. I think what I feel is envy. But it’s not really envy because envy is when somebody has something you wish you had. But in this case, I already have what the object of my envy has but nobody can see that I have it and that’s the part that’s making me envious, or whatever the right word is. And I don’t even want this thing I have that I want everybody to notice that I have. In fact I want to get rid of it but I can’t get rid of it until people that don’t have this thing that I have and want to get rid of notice that I have it. And that’s what’s frustrating. So what I’m feeling is probably not envy, per se. So then what is it? It certainly is something.

This is all the fault of the Pew Research Center. They just did a survey about different groups of Americans that are being fucked over. They didn’t call it that. They called it discrimination. But I don’t like that word. It’s way too soft to describe the offense. And discrimination isn’t always a bad thing. People with discriminating tastes are considered to be sophisticated and refined. So I prefer calling it what it is, which is being fucked over.

But anyway, Pew Research surveyed 1,502 adults and from that determined that 82 percent of Americans believe Muslims face discrimination in the United States and 57 percent of Americans believe Muslims face "a lot" of discrimination. Black people and gays and lesbians tied for second at 76 percent followed by Hispanics at 70 percent and women at 60 percent.

And just where did cripples finish in this sad race? We finished worse than dead last because we weren’t even entered into the Fucked Over Derby. Apparently we didn’t make the cut when it comes to being fucked over in the eyes of Pew.

I don’t know what to say about all this. Congratulations Muslims, I guess? Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge them the distinction of most fucked over. Lord knows they’ve earned it. But I feel like I’m sitting at a bar frantically waving my arms and the bartender keeps passing me by. What the hell does a guy have to do to get attention at this joint?

In this case, the metaphorical bartender is Pew and the uncrippled majority at large. Because it’s easy to say, “Oh who cares what anybody else thinks. Cripples know we’re being fucked over. That’s all that matters.” But the truth is that you’re not really officially being fucked over in this country until those who aren’t being fucked over in the same manner acknowledge that you’re being fucked over.

So I guess cripples will just have to work harder. I don’t mean work harder at being fucked over. That happens naturally. No effort required. We’ll have to work harder to make sure people besides us notice.




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