Arts and Crafts

Pine cones depress me. They mock me. They remind me of how dense I am and how much better my life would be had I only paid attention in arts and crafts at cripple summer camp.

Pine cones are definitive proof that I am not what anyone could remotely refer to as a visionary. Martha Stewart is a visionary. When she saw a pine cone, her pupils turned to dollar signs. She could make anything out of pine cones—a soufflé, a wedding dress, a fully-functional lunar landing module. And from that she built an empire and now she’s a bazillionaire and I’m still a loser.

But I never trusted pine cones because I never trusted arts and crafts. One of the ways you were required to have fun at cripple summer camp was to go to arts and crafts. At arts and crafts your materials were stuff like pine cones and Popsicle sticks and they’d try to get you to make something out of them. But I balked because arts and crafts felt too much like therapy and even as a pup I was suspicious of therapy because therapy, by its nature, has a hidden agenda. Whenever a therapist handed us pine cones or had us toss a bean bag into a trash can or whatever, it was always a calculated move. They were trying to “develop” something in us, like our motor skills or our socialization abilities or, worst of all, our self-esteem. And somehow they thought making stuff out of pine cones was the best way to achieve that. But I was noncompliant because I feared that they were trying to “develop” me into one of those placid cripples whose self esteem is rooted in their ability to make stuff out of pine cones.

And the therapists also were always trying to get you to be “self-sufficient,” which meant they were always looking for ways to help you again do all the things you were happy you had a great excuse for not doing anymore because you were crippled, like changing light bulbs. They’d rig up your home with an elaborate pulley system that lifted you out of your wheelchair and you’d fly like Peter Pan up to light bulb level so you could once again experience the satisfaction that comes from changing your own light bulbs.

But screw that. Here’s a joke:

Q: How many cripples does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: None. You have a therapist do it.

So I ran away from anything that smacked of therapy, especially arts and crafts. But I sure regret it now, especially when every time I turn around I see crap for sale with Martha Stewart’s name on it. I was at a pet store last week and I saw a display of Martha Stewart crap for pets.

If I hadn’t been so instantly turned off by pine cones and Popsicle sticks, maybe today I’d have my own line of Smart Ass Cripple crap! I should have taken their pine cones and turned the tables on them! Like the old corny saying goes: When life hands you pine cones, make a cancer vaccine out of pine cone extract.

But I’m just an unvisionary loser.

Why Everybody Needs to Have a Lock of Smart Ass Cripple’s Hair

When economic times get tough, the ones hit hardest are the smart asses. When bosses get anxious and grumpy and lay people off, the first to go are the smart asses. Recent research concluded that being a smart ass to your boss increases your odds of becoming unemployed by 95 percent. (This research was funded by a grant from my favorite federal agency, the Bureau of the Obvious (BO). The BO supports research projects that tell us stuff we all already knew, such as jumping off a 30-foot cliff without a parachute is a bad idea. So then the surgeon general has to post a warning on all 30-foot cliffs urging people not to jump or at least wear a parachute.)

It’s not fair that smart asses are persecuted like this. It’s not like being a smart ass is a lifestyle we choose. We’re born this way. It’s in our blood. Any true smart ass knows this. Being a smart ass is a calling. You can’t just turn it off with a switch.

But when jobs are scarce and money is tight, everybody wants someone else to blame and smart asses are a convenient scapegoat. So I’m to the point where I have no choice but to sell my body. I don’t mean I’m going to sell off the whole thing, either in the medical or prostitutional sense. I know I wouldn’t have many takers. To paraphrase the late great smart ass Rodney Dangerfield, I’m in such bad shape, when I die I’m donating my body to science fiction.

The way for me to get the best bang for the buck for my body is to sell it off in pieces. The problem is, the parts that would command the princeliest sum on the open market are the parts I could never live without, such as my heart and my brain and “Hercules,” as I call him.

So I should start by selling disposable parts, like my toes. In my case, my toes are just decorations. But I’ve only got 10 toes so what then? So I should sell parts that are disposable and renewable! If I was a crawfish I could sell my toes because when you cut off the limb of a crawfish it grows it right back. It says so on the internet so it must be true. But even if I was a crawfish, amputation is painful so I should sell body parts that are disposable and renewable and painlessly extracted. My bodily waste meets those criteria, but I don’t think its worth much. I can’t even sell my piss to a stoner trying to pass a drug test.

So what does that leave me?

Hair!

And so I’m announcing this hot offer:

Anybody who leaves something in Smart Ass Cripple’s tip jar receives their very own lock of Smart Ass Cripple’s hair absolutely free!

No matter who you are or how you feel about Smart Ass Cripple, you need to have a lock of my hair. If you love me with all your heart and soul, then it’s obvious why you need to have a lock of my hair. You can carry a piece of me with you always. You can put my lock in a locket.

But even if you hate my goddam crippled guts, that’s all the more reason you need to have a lock of my hair. You can commit a heinous crime and leave behind the lock and it’ll throw the forensics nerds and sniffing dogs all out of whack and they’ll arrest me instead of you. Or a lock of my hair is the perfect finishing touch for your Smart Ass Cripple Voodoo doll.

And even if you’re indifferent about Smart Ass Cripple, it would be financially irresponsible for you not to have a lock of my hair. Think of what it will be worth 10 years from now to own a lock from the very first shearing! Just deposit your lock in a safe deposit vault, sit back and dream!

And think of it this way too: with a voracious demand for my hair, every time I go to Supercuts I’ll have to bring along a big bag and tell the stylist to sweep my hair into the bag so I can take it home. I’ll even post a picture of me and my hair bag on Smart Ass Cripple. How can you pass up a chance to embarrass me like that?

So act now, before I run out of hair! After that, you’ll have to settle for a nail clipping or bodily waste.

Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe

Sometimes I see the little criplets of the 21st Century whipping around in tiny motorized wheelchairs. These criplets are only five or six years old but they whirl and ricochet like wee maniacs. I lament because I sure as hell never had a chair like that when I was that age. My first wheelchair was basically a hand truck with a seat. I didn’t get into my first motorized chair until I was an adolescent at the state-operated cripple boarding school. And that was one of earliest, clunky model T motorized wheelchairs, as plodding as a brontosaurus.

The chairs today’s criplets drive are sleek and customized. They kick into gear and sprint. I try not to be bitter and jealous but it’s hard. Because I know if I had a powerful motorized wheelchair like that so early on, it would have drastically altered not only the arc of my life but the entire course of human history. The world would be quite a different place because with that kind of acceleration under my antsy butt, I would have soon ended up as one of two things: Either a) Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, or 2) dead.

Let us consider the second scenario first, since it’s far more likely. Sitting little me into one of today’s wild bull wheelchairs, flipping on the power switch and telling me to go for it would’ve been as dangerous and irresponsible as handing little me a chain saw, flipping on the power switch and telling me to go for it. Smart Ass Criplet transforms instantly into an adrenaline junkie, intoxicated by my sudden ability to zip from zero to maniac in two seconds! Feeling immortal and indestructible, I would’ve promptly slammed into a brick wall or played chicken with an oncoming train.

What a different world this would be if that happened. There would be no Smart Ass Cripple and you wouldn’t be reading this silliness. Think of all the more constructive things you could do with your time.

But had I somehow survived, I would most assuredly have gone on to be Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. As a child, it was my aspiration to become Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. My mother wanted me to be something more practical, like an accountant, but I had bigger dreams. I definitely had the drive, desire, devilish instincts and conniving nature to become Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. All I lacked was the horsepower. And by the time I took my first ride in a motorized chair I was 13, and you know how you are at that age. Oh sure, you’d still love to be Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, but not if you have to work for it. You expect the universe to walk up and hand it to you. And anyway, that first motorized wheelchair was as fast and nimble as a tank so it wasn’t conducive to becoming Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe.

Had I achieved my career goal of Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, life in the universe would be paradise. With Smart Ass Cripple in charge, all our problems would be over. Because first off, there would be no republicans. Republicans? Outlawed, by the first decree of the Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe! That right there would solve 80 percent of our problems. And also, beer would be free! All beer abundant and free by decree! That would solve the other 20 percent.

Henry Kissinger Hates New Zelanders

The wedding was way down south in the town of Litchfield. Diana Ross (Smart Ass Cripple Alias) was excited to travel down there with Rahnee and me as one of our assistants.

But the close friends and family of Diana Ross beseeched her not to go. “They hate black folks down there,” they all said. “Why do you think they call it Lynchfield!”

So Diana Ross told us she was having serious doubts about going. So we had to reassure her that she would not be lynched.

First off, the town is called Litchfield, we said. So the worst that could happen is she might get Litched. Oh sure, hers would probably be the only face at the wedding that wasn’t white. And yes, like everywhere else in the world, there were sure to be some racists in the crowd. It’s near impossible to assemble 100 plus people anywhere without catching in the net a racist or two. But even so, she would be protected by a counterbalancing social force far more powerful than racism: wedding etiquette. Any expert on manners will tell you that a sure-fire way to ruin a bride’s once-in-a-lifetime extra special day and make her pissed off at you for the rest of your life would be to lynch one of her wedding guests.

However we did feel compelled to warn Diana Ross that she might witness a frightening ritual in which white people at a wedding were likely to engage. It’s called the chicken dance. We described in graphic detail how we drink too much and then we flap our arms and waddle around in circles to peppy accordion music. And sometimes, if things really deteriorate into drunken surrealism, we put our left hip in and our left hip out and our left hip in and we shake it all about.

But even that didn’t scare Diana Ross away. She was back in! She was excited to go to Litchfield. She was in her early 30s and a single mother of three but she had never traveled beyond Chicago.

It was a glorious day for a wedding—bright sun and blue sky and twittering birds. And yes, Diana Ross was the only person in the church who wasn’t white. But no matter—all went off without a hitch. There was not so much as a hint of a potential lynching.

After the wedding, outside the church, I saw Diana Ross laughing it up with Uncle Henry Kissinger (Smart Ass Cripple alias again). Uncle Henry Kissinger was a lanky truck driver, 30ish. He spoke with a warm, slow drawl.
Diana Ross and Henry Kissinger were really hitting it off. As I approached I heard him say, “I get along with everybody.”

“Me too!” replied Diana Ross.

“I got nothing against nobody,” Henry Kissinger said. But after a long pause, he added, “Well, except for those people from New Zealand. I don’t like them. “ Those people from New Zealand, they come to the U.S. and they drive trucks, Henry Kissinger said. And because they live in New Zealand, they don’t have homes to go here to so they live in their trucks. Sometimes two or three of them live in a truck so they can drive 24/7, nonstop! Guys like Henry Kissinger can’t keep up.

“They come here and they take all of our jobs!” Henry Kissinger grumbled.

Diana Ross nodded. “Well I think we can all agree that we don’t like them.”

Evil Bastards All!

Holy crap!

Did you hear the earth-shattering news?

A team of geneticists at John Hopkin's University, after decades of research, have pinpointed a single cause for what makes people crippled, no matter what kind of cripple they are. These researchers meticulously studied the DNA of millions of cripples from all over the world and they determined with scientific certainty that the single reason people become crippled is because God is punishing them for something evil they did in their previous life.

Damn!

I mean some people have been preaching that punished by God shit for centuries but we always dismissed them as dumbass superstitions. But now there’s scientific proof that they were right all along! This is some monumental shit these John Hopkin's guys discovered! The Vegas oddsmakers have them as a cinch to win the Nobel Prize.

And now I’ll never look at cripples the same way again. Every time I see one now, I’ll wonder what kind of evil bastard they used to be. The guy I’m really wondering about is that Stephen Hawking. As thoroughly crippled up as he is, in his previous life he must have been like Hitler or something. And consequently he’s condemned to live this life as distinguished Lucasion Professor of Mathematics at the University of Cambridge, best-selling author and recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

And I’m also wondering about this young woman I know who’s not very crippled up at all. She just has a little bit of a limp. Other than that she’s smart and good-looking and she talks clear as a bell and she looks pretty much normal. God didn’t punish her too bad so in her previous life she must have just had a bunch of unpaid parking tickets.

And I’ll never look at myself the same way again either. What kind of evil bastard was I? I know I wasn’t as evil as Hawking because God didn’t punish me quite as bad as he punished him. At least I can talk. But if Hawking was something like Hitler, I must’ve been something nearly as despicable. I bet in my previous life I was a superstar athlete. I was young and strong. I had a million dollars, a zillion women and a solid gold Rolls Royce, which I always parked in those handicapped parking spaces.

But the guys I’m wondering about the most are those who have the most terrifying cripple condition of all. You can’t tell by looking at them. They strut around chin up, pretending like there’s nothing wrong. But sooner or later their cripple condition manifests and they are mortified. Most guys would rather be like Stephen Hawking ten times over than to have what these guys have. Impotence.

God is punishing the hell out of those guys.

My Prayer of Self Belittlement

I’m trapped in an empty room. I can’t move because there are no batteries on my wheelchair. That man unhooked them and hauled them away and he left me here alone in this empty room in the wheelchair repair shop.

It’s so quiet in this empty room, quiet as the desert. The repairman will be back in a few minutes with spanking new batteries to replace my old sluggish batteries. And he’ll hook my new batteries up and I’ll be on my way, my zip restored. But I don’t care. I can’t wait that long. I can’t stand being powerless like this, not even for a few minutes. The room is so empty and quiet, so lit up bright with taunting fluorescence. It feels like a nightmare. I want out now!

And even when the man returns and I’m rolling again, the nightmare won’t be over. He’ll present me with a big bill, probably $500 for spanking new batteries plus another $500 for hooking them up. Get me out of here now!

Way back when I was still Catholic, this was the type of situation where I’d seek refuge in my Prayer of Self Belittlement. The Prayer of Self Belittlement was designed specifically for occasions like this. It went something like: “Dear God, I know I have absolutely no right to feel sorry for myself when there are children starving in China. Please forgive me for being such a selfish brute. I promise I will never ever complain about my life ever ever again.”

The Prayer of Self Belittlement is the only Catholic prayer I still remember because it’s the only prayer that can be improvised, more or less. The goal is to chastise yourself into passivity by comparing your wretchedly ungrateful self to someone you think is way worse off than you. Since everyone can come up with someone they think is way worse than them, even the lowliest galley slave can repress their rebellious soul by reciting the Prayer of Self Belittlement. The Prayer of Self Belittlement reminds you exactly who you are. It grounds you in shame.

But it doesn’t work on me anymore. So my brain claws at the inside of my skull. I want out of this cramped room now! I want to be out playing tennis on the sunny tennis court, like that cripple in the promotional poster tacked up on the wall. That happy, free-as-a-bird cripple rides a Quickie brand wheelchair, the poster says. Or how about that other cripple in the other poster on the other wall? I want to be where he is! He sits in his wheelchair, majestic and proud, on a plateau in the middle of a vast canyon, blue sky in the background all around.

I want to be where he is! But how did that cripple get atop that plateau, with a sheer 50-foot drop on all sides? Was he airlifted up there or airbrushed?

The poster it seems is an ad for a wheelchair butt cushion. The poster bears the logo of the butt cushion manufacturer and one simple but poignant word of text: Freedom!

Wow! Freedom! That says it all, doesn’t it? Freedom. So this butt cushion must be a magic butt cushion, like a flying carpet! Strap it to your wheelchair and it whisks you, wheelchair and all, up to the top of a rugged plateau!

Freedom!

I want that butt cushion and I want it now! The cripple on the plateau has such confident posture. His butt cushion makes him confident. And confidence is sexy. Women love confidence. If I sit on a butt cushion like that one and go to a bar, women will throw themselves at me! That butt cushion is an aphrodisiac! I must have one NOW!

The repairman returns with my spanking new batteries. My reverie snaps. The bill will come soon. And I can no longer ease the financial pain with my Prayer of Self Belittlement.

Adopt a Smart Ass Cripple

Who wants to adopt Smart Ass Cripple? I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve totally lost my identity. Ever since way back when I was a cherubic lad with just a hint of a smart ass glimmer in my eyes, they’ve been calling me Jerry’s Kid. But now that Jerry’s gone, whose kid am I?

I always knew that as one of Jerry’s Kids, I was different from regular kids. Jerry’s Kids never grow up. We’re not allowed to. It’s like they baptized us in the Fountain of Youth, except the age-retarding potency of the water in this fountain is magnified by ten thousand. It’s the Fountain of Infantilization. Even after I developed decidedly unchildlike traits, like pubic hair and a sex drive, they still called me Jerry’s Kid.

But whose kid am I now? American Idol producer Nigel Lythgoe will be taking over as one of the telethon hosts. So I suppose some big shot in the hierarchies will attempt to deem that henceforth I’m am to be known as American Idol Producer Nygel Lythgoe’s Kid.

But that’s fucked up. You can’t just extinguish a cult of personality as entrenched as Jerry’s with the mere flick of a press release. It’s going to take a Soviet style purge, maybe even another Cultural Revolution, to do that. You may have to send everybody who ever watched the telethon to re-education camps to get them to stop looking at cripples as Jerry’s Kids.

So screw it. As far as I concerned, I’m now a free agent. And I’m selling my naming rights to the highest bidder. Whoever kicks in the most cash, I will be your kid. You don’t have to be famous. Adopt me and I’m sure we’ll figure out a way to make both of us famous.

And as an extra added bonus, when you adopt me you also automatically adopt every other cripple in the world. Because that’s how it worked with Jerry’s Kids. It didn’t matter what kind of cripple we really were. To the average Pete on the Street, unschooled on the many genres of crippledom, we were all Jerry’s Kids.

This is an incredible offer you can’t afford to pass up. But wait there’s more! Adopt me now and I’ll include this amazing set of steak knives absolutely free, plus free shipping and handling!

I’m desperate to be adopted. I’m lost. That’s what happens when the giant thumb of a smothering parent is suddenly lifted. The blinding sun makes me squint. Its sizzling rays burn my albino skin. I need shelter quick.

If you really really want to adopt me but you’re just not sure if you have what it takes, ask yourself these three simple questions: Do you have enough integrity? Do you have enough moral character? Do you have enough cash?

If you answered yes to the third question, this could be your lucky day!