Friday, July 22, 2016

The Ethics of the 10-Toed Sloth

Behold the 10-toed sloth. See him in his natural habitat, sitting in his wheelchair at his desk and writing his silly little blog.

The 10-toed sloth is not ashamed to call himself a sloth. As a matter of fact, he’s proud of it. Sloths are deeply misunderstood creatures. People confuse sloth with apathy. But the sloth has dreams. The 10-toed sloth’s dream is to own a shitload of those machines filled with cheap stuffed animals and a kid drops a buck or so into a slot so they can try to win a stuffed animal by grabbing it with a crane claw. What a sweet deal that must be for the guy who owns the machine. Have you ever seen a kid actually successfully snag a stuffed animal with one of those things? And even if they do snag one every now and then, so what? They just paid a buck for a 50-cent stuffed animal. So the house always wins! It’s like a slot machine for kiddies.

The sloth's dream is the American dream. The American dream isn’t to get rich by working your ass off. The American dream is to get rich by doing as little work as possible. The American dream is winning the lottery.

And because the 10-toed sloth fervently believes in not working hard when he doesn’t have to, he is not above going for the cheap laugh. Why should he go through all the trouble of pulling an elaborate practical joke on someone when he can just fart? The sloth believes that the cheap laugh is the most rewarding laugh of all.

The sloth also believes it’s complete and utter bullshit that sloth is listed as one of the seven deadly sins. Whoever decided that must’ve been a real tight ass. He (no doubt it was a he) must’ve been some grumpy sonuvabitch who subscribed to the Protestant work ethic and wanted everybody else to be as miserable as he was. The sloth says fuck the Protestant work ethic! Why isn’t working your ass off one of the seven deadly sins? It should be deadly sin number one! Working your ass off will kill you faster than sitting on it will.

The sloth’s favorite holiday is New Year’s Day. This is the sloth’s High Holy Day. The sloth thinks it’s wonderful that we begin each year with a celebration of sloth where we sit on our asses, eat, drink and watch football. It makes the sloth feel that there still might be some hope for humanity. The sloth is amazed that New Year’s Day hasn’t been outlawed by the tightasses.

Some people are worried about the bees. They’re worried that the bees are going extinct and if that happens it will greatly upset the balance of things and as a result, Homo sapiens may very well also go extinct. The sloth agrees that what's happening to the bees really sucks, but what about the 10-toed sloth? The 10-toed sloth constantly faces the threat of extinction. That will greatly upset the balance of things, too. If the 10-toed sloth goes extinct, the tightasses, unchecked, will run wild! And as a result, Homo sapiens may very well also go extinct

Save the 10-toed sloth!



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Thursday, July 14, 2016

The Dangers of Flamingo Plucking

I’m not easily amazed, but I’m amazed that there isn't an organized recreational activity known as flamingo plucking. (Challenge: get really realy drunk and say “flamingo plucking” ten times real fast.)

Because we live in a world where there are flamingos. And what unique and beautiful birds they are. Just look at that vibrant pink plumage. And it follows that whenever and wherever such unique and beautiful creatures exist, there are also exist some human creatures who feel compelled to fuck with them. It’s like this dumbass boy I once saw taunting a goose. The kid was at that age where you get a big testosterone rush out of doing stupid bully shit like taunting a goose. The goose was waddling along on the grass just minding its own damn business, followed by smaller geese. And the kid gets all up in the goose’s face and goes “HWONK!” The goose looked pissed. It went “HWONK” right back at the kid. And it was a big goose, about the same size as the kid. But the kid kept at it. “HWOOOONK! HWOOOOOOOOONK!” It was one of those moments we all have in life when we say to ourselves, “Where the hell are that kid’s parents?” The kid was lucky that the goose had more sense than he did and didn’t bite his fucking face off.

So it follows that since there are flamingos, there must also be flamingo pluckers. It's the kind of thing that could become all the rage on college campuses. The most likely candidates would be drunken frat boys on campuses in areas where flamingos are indigenous. In order to be accepted into the brotherhood, you must bring back to the house a genuine pink feather which you personally plucked from a live flamingo. And you must pluck the flamingo while naked. And so the young pledges sneak out to the swamp (or scale the fence of the zoo after hours). They creep up behind an unsuspecting flamingo, strip naked and whirl a lasso.

Other likely candidates for becoming flamingo pluckers would be the regular customers of eateries that have those gluttonous food challenges. Eat 12 pizzas in 20 minutes and you get a free t-shirt that says I’m a disgusting pig and your picture goes up on the prestigious Wall of Idiots. So it seems inevitable that by now one of those eateries in an area where there are lots of flamingos would offer a comparable bounty for every successfully plucked flamingo feather.

The reason why I know there must not be any of this sort of organized flamingo plucking going on is because I’ve met lots of cripples who became crippled in lots of bizarre ways, but I’ve never met anyone who was maimed by an irate flamingo. If there were any cripples like that out there, surely I would’ve met one by now. And if flamingo plucking was going on, there would be cripples like that out there for sure. They would be missing a least one eye and probably assorted other limbs and or digits. And they would serve the community by lecturing middle schoolers on the dangers of flamingo plucking. “Don’t make the same mistake I did, boys and girls. If someone tries to pressure you into going flamingo plucking, just say no.”







Wednesday, July 6, 2016

The Cripophobe at Costco

The guy at Costco really offended me. I could tell he was there to sell something by how he was dressed. He wore a vest and bow tie. He looked like he was waiting for the other three members of the barbershop quartet to show up. Except he didn’t have a straw hat. So either this guy was selling something or he was some kind of weirdo who puts on a barbershop quartet outfit and hangs around Costco. Either way I thought it prudent to avoid him.

As I past him I purposely didn’t make eye contact. I heard him say, “Excuse me, sir.” But he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the guy behind me. But the guy behind me kept walking. So then the barbershop quartet guy addressed the guy behind the guy behind me. “Excuse me, sir. Do you wish hair removal could be easier?”

The guy behind the guy behind me kept walking, too. But the barbershop quartet guy still didn’t approach me. He was purposely not making eye contact with me! And that’s when I felt offended! I hung around within earshot, pretending to be perusing the snack foods, until a customer stopped long enough to hear his sales pitch. He was selling the razors on proud display beside him. These were revolutionary razors. Laser razors, or something like that. They remove unsightly body hair in a flash!

The customer politely smiled and nodded and moved on. So the barbershop quartet guy looked around for someone else to approach. Even though I was sitting right there by the snack foods, he acted like I was invisible. Now I was really getting pissed! How dare he ignore me! Yeah I know, I was purposely not making eye contact with him, but so was everybody else. It didn’t stop him from approaching all of them.

This left only one possible explanation for his behavior. He must be a big time cripophobe. Maybe the thought of cripples with unsightly body hair gives him the creeps. Or maybe he’s one of those types that automatically assumes that all cripples are broke-ass welfare cases. A cripple like me can’t possibly afford a revolutionary laser razor. Well, let me tell you something, Jack! Cripples are a vast untapped market! According to the Chamber of Commerce, cripples represent something like $5 zillion in buying power! So screw you and your hot shot laser razor!

I circled back around and passed so close to the guy that he would have to break his neck to ignore me. Then the guy said to me, “Excuse me, sir. Do you wish hair removal could be easier?”

“No thanks,” I said and I turned and left. I felt much better after that. I’m glad he realized that even though I’m a cripple, I deserve to have the same opportunity as everybody else to blow him off.







Friday, July 1, 2016

The Holy Quest for Orgasm

It isn’t often that a television show changes my life, but this one did. It was on a Christian channel, which I call WGOD.

It looked like there was a weird orgy going on in a church. People writhed in ecstasy. Some rolled in the aisles so overcome with joy that they spoke a gibberish language. Others chirped and grimaced as shockwaves of bliss rippled through their bodies like an earthquake. And still others collapsed into the pews or fell to their hands and knees, exhausted and spent.

It really looked and sounded just like an orgy except everybody had their clothes on and nobody had a partner. Or maybe the partner was invisible (i.e. Jesus). But they were all having orgasms— maybe not your standard wet and sloppy physical orgasms but orgasms nonetheless. Spiritual orgasms? I don’t know. But the result was the same: a torrent of tension and a burst of release followed by a warm glow and a glorious sense of oneness with all creatures.

Until that moment, these hardcore Christian types really creeped me out. But then it hit me that they aren’t that much different from me. When you get right down to it, they, like all grown humans, desire what I desire. We all desire a good strong orgasm.

I never realized this before because I was raised Catholic and Catholics aren’t allowed to have orgasms. It’s a sin. It says so in the Bible. The apple in the Garden of Eden symbolized orgasm. I don’t remember what the snake symbolized. But when Eve said fuck it and treated herself to a sweet juicy apple (i.e. orgasm) everything went to hell. So whenever a Catholic has an orgasm, that earns them something like 10,000 years in purgatory, or 15,000 if it’s a self-induced orgasm. But yet Catholics are called upon to procreate with abandon. So the challenge is to find a way to procreate without having an orgasm. That’s why it’s so very hard to be a true Catholic. (Some more liberal scholars may argue that papal doctrine does not forbid achieving orgasms, it only forbids enjoying achieving orgasms. Whatever. I’ll not engage in theological hair splitting.)

So when I reached the age when I felt I had to choose between loyalty to my inherited religion and orgasms, I stopped going to church. No contest. But seeing the quasi orgy on WGOD restored some of my faith in Christianity. It’s even made me a bit envious. I’ve never had an orgasm so massive that it made me speak a gibberish language. Now I have something new to add to my bucket list. But I don’t think I’ll try to achieve those heights via the Jesus route. I think he, of all people, can tell when you’re faking it.

So I say live and let live, brothers and sisters. We are all on the same journey. I wish you good luck and Godspeed in your quest to achieve multiple multiple multiple orgasms. Who cares if you get them from Jesus or a dildo?









Thursday, June 23, 2016

Take the Lipstick Test, if you Dare

If you’re not crippled, do you ever wonder what kind of cripple you would be if you were crippled? If you're already are crippled, do you ever wonder what kind of cripple you already are?

Well then you should take The Lipstick Test. That will tell you everything you need to know. Here’s how it works: Imagine you’re so crippled that you can’t even put on lipstick. (Or maybe you already are that crippled. I know I am.) Maybe you’re so spastic that you can’t put on lipstick without making your face look like a roadmap. Or maybe you were born without arms. Or maybe you lost your arms because you were in a horrible accident or because you got drunk and tried to dance with a bear. Or maybe you have arms but they’re so crippled up you can’t even put on lipstick.

Whatever. When faced with this obstacle, which of the following cripples would you be (or are you)?

The Resourceful Cripple
: The resourceful cripple heads straight to the drawing board to devise a means to facilitate the independent, hands-free application of lipstick. The solution may be low tech. Maybe a wire coat hanger is fashioned into a lipstick applicator wand with a clamp on each end. The upper clamp holds the lipstick tube firmly in place at mouth level and the bottom clamp mounts the wand to the makeup table. The resourceful cripple bellies up to the makeup table, removes the cap of the tube using her/his teeth and applies the lipstick by maneuvering her/his lips around the lipstick as opposed to the traditional method of vice versa. Or the solution may be high tech. The resourceful cripple invents a voice-operated lipstick applicator drone. A tube of lipstick hangs down on a wire from the bottom of the drone. Upon command the drone takes flight and hovers in front of the resourceful cripple’s face while she/he applies the lipstick by maneuvering her/his lips around the lipstick as opposed to the traditional method of vice versa.

The Fuck-it Cripple: The fuck-it cripple says fuck it. She/he says, “Why should I expend so much of my time and energy trying to put on lipstick? I have so many more important things to do. I’ll just hire an assistant to put my lipstick on me.”

The Sour Grapes Cripple: The sour grapes cripple also says fuck it. She/he says, “Wearing lipstick is stupid. I’m not taking part in that idiotic ritual and anybody who doesn’t want to kiss my bare lips can kiss my bare ass!” The difference between a sour grapes cripple and a fuck-it cripple is money. A fuck-it cripple is a sour grapes cripple who can afford to hire an assistant.

The Cure-me Cripple: The cure-me cripple heads straight to the physical therapy gym and/or church, determined to be made whole once again. She/he spends 80+ hours a week exercising and/or praying. “Please God, if you give me my arms back I promise I’ll never again get drunk and try to dance with a bear.”

The Kill-me Cripple: The kill-me cripple heads straight to Switzerland in search of assisted suicide. The kill-me cripple says, “If I can’t apply lipstick anymore, life isn’t worth living! The indignity is unbearable! I’d rather die from a physician-prescribed lethal dose of barbiturates than die from the embarrassment of being crippled!”

Now that you’ve taken the lipstick test, what kind of cripple would you be (or are you already)? I hope this exercise was as enlightening for you as it was for me.







Thursday, June 16, 2016

Old Broken Down Waterpiks for Kripples

The day just started and already I’m feeling overwhelmed. All I did was roll from my bed to my bathroom sink and I’m ready to throw up my hands and go back to bed.

My Waterpik is busted! I thought I’d begin the day on a positive note with a refreshing blast from my mouth bidet. But all it did when I flipped the switch was grumble and die. So now I’m saddled with an albatross because you can’t just toss electric devices in the garbage anymore. It’s not environmentally correct. It accelerates the melting of the arctic ice and I don’t want to be an accomplice to that. Proper procedure is to take electric devices to one of the state-sanctioned electric device recycling centers and God knows where the hell those are. I guess I’ll have to look it up. Meanwhile , I’ll toss the Waterpik on the pile in the attic with the old phone and answering machine and clock radio and all the old broken down electric devices that I can’t just toss in the garbage anymore goddammit. That pile is getting bigger. Someday it’s bound to all come crashing down through the ceiling and kill somebody. It really makes me sad.

And it’s not like there’s some charity I can call to come haul the damn thing away, like Kars for Kids. There isn’t any charity called Old Broken Down Waterpiks for Kids or Kripples or anybody else as far as I know. So I’m on my own here. Now if I was an enterprising person I would see this as an opportunity to get rich, one of those lemons/lemonade crossroads in life. I would seize the bull by the udders and start milking! Maybe I’d start up a charity like Goodwill and I’d collect old broken down Waterpiks and employ an army of cripples to repair them or take them apart for scap metal or something. I’m not sure how starting a charity will make me rich but hey, if other people can do it, so can I!

I can call it therapy. I can say I’m using old broken down Waterpiks to help cripples improve their motor skills. How could anybody not be in favor of helping cripples improve their motor skills, unless they’re a communist?

People will donate their old broken down Waterpiks to me by the truckload! “Your generous contribution not only helps cripples improve their motor skills but it also preserves the arctic ice!” It’s a philanthropic twofer!

But I know what will happen if I try to pursue that dream. I’ll never take the second step. I could maybe rouse myself up enough to collect a million old broken down Waterpiks. But I’ll never have the patience or attention span it takes to recruit and employ hundreds of cripples with shitty motor skills. So instead of being stuck with one old broken down Waterpik, I’ll be stuck with a million. I’ll be surrounded by a million brutal reminders of how disgustingly unenterprising I am and why I’ll never be rich.







Tuesday, June 7, 2016

An Adolescent Mistake


Sometimes the cost of living as a cripple can really bring a guy down. Like I just had to fork over $120 for a new goddam wheelchair safety belt!

At times like that I’m filled with melancholy and I reflect back with regret on some of the poor financial decisions I made in my life, especially in my adolescence. Like instead of being a broke-ass writer, I should have channeled my youthful energy into doing something that would’ve made me really really fucking rich!

And maybe I shouldn’t have blown the one and only chance I had in my life to obtain my very own free copy of Barbi Benton’s record album, personally autographed by Barbi herself.

Unlike me, when Barbi Benton was young she made a very wise career decision designed to make her really really fucking rich. She became Hugh Hefner’s girlfriend. That’s a really high-paying job, especially nowadays. Barbi was uniquely qualified for the position, if you know what I mean. I’m sure when the other applicants in the waiting room of the personnel office got a load of her cleavage, they all threw up their arms in defeat and went home. No contest.

So one afternoon in the 1970s I was at a department store with my mother and I went to the record section. But the record section was crowded as hell. There was a big hullabaloo going on. So I went to check it out. This woman saw me and elected herself to be the one to clear a path for me. She parted the wall of bodies like Moses and there was buxom Barbie perched on a stool, her album on display beside her. And then the woman said, “Barbi, look!” And she pointed to me. Barbi’s eyes met mine. I don’t remember what Barbi and I said to each other but I believe it was something like, “Hi.”

The next thing I remember was getting the hell out of there fast because I could feel a cripple photo op coming on— Barbi decides to make my day by posing with me and her album. And the heartwarming photo goes out on the newswires all over the world. And my friends give me shit about it for the rest of my life.

But oh how I now wish I would have stuck around long enough to get an autographed album. I probably could’ve even gotten one for free— the pity discount.

It could be worth a bundle today. How many autographed Barbi Benton albums can there still be in existence? It could be one of those items of memorabilia that’s so worthless that it eventually becomes priceless, like a Monkees lunchbox.

You never know. Sometimes silly shit like that ends up being worth more than the Mona Lisa. I could auction off my autographed Barbi Benton album to the highest bidder and buy enough damn ridiculously jacked up wheelchair safety belts to choke a horse.



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