I hear scary stories all the time about cripples getting roughed up at the hands of cops. Like for instance, a deaf person is driving and a cop pulls them over and the deaf person starts doing sign language and the cop assumes they’re flashing gang signs or something and roughs them up. Or someone who’s schizophrenic or has PTSD gets stressed out and has a shit fit because a cop is ordering them around and so the cop roughs them up.
It almost happened to my friend Jay way back when, way back in the 1970s, when he was a long-haired hippie freak. He was out cruising one night with his long-haired hippie freak buddies. His buddies lifted him into the front passenger seat of the car. They put his wheelchair in the trunk. Late that night in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, a cop car squealed up behind them. Two cops jumped out. “Get out of the car!” they barked. Jay’s friends got out of the car. “Open the trunk!” It seemed these cops were convinced that these long-haired hippie freaks must have had three tons of cocaine in the trunk. One cop saw Jay still sitting in the car so he went around and whipped open the passenger door. “I said GET OUT OF THE CAR!” As the cop prepared to drag Jay out of the car, the trunk opened. There wasn’t three tons of cocaine. There was only a wheelchair. The other cop called his agitated partner off and they scurried away.
Some say the problem is cops don’t understand the complexity of dealing with cripples. They need more training. That may be true. But I’ll still always be afraid of the cops because no matter how extensively trained they are in the proper care and handling of cripples, there will always be some crazy scenario where they freak out and don’t know what to do. Like for instance, there’s this concert place called Lincoln Hall. It’s an old movie theater that was gut rehabbed into a concert venue. And when they gut rehabbed it they installed an “”””””elevator.”””””” I put the world elevator in six quotes because it’s really just a lift that goes up a 15 foot shaft. You roll into a lidless box that’s just big enough for a standard wheelchair and you feel like you’re in solitary confinement. And when the box goes up it sounds like gears crunching and the shaft shakes. And the box moves soooooooooooooooooooo sloooooooooooooooooowly. I swear it takes an hour to go 15 feet.
Lincoln Hall isn’t the only place with an elevator like this. And whenever I go up or down in one I dread that it’ll get stuck right in the middle and then what? The police will be summoned to rescue me but what can they do? It’s like trying to rescue a grown man in a motorized wheelchair who somehow managed to fall down a well.
Here’s the safest and simplest scenario for rescuing me: The police cut a hole in the roof of Lincoln Hall directly above the lift. A police helicopter hovers above and drops a giant U-shaped magnet attached to the end of a rope down the hole. The magnet attaches itself to the metal of my chair and the helicopter lifts me up out of the box and through the hole in the roof and sets me down gently and safely on the sidewalk outside. A crowd of gawkers has gathered as they do when there’s someone out on a ledge. They all cheer! The television news crews capture every dramatic moment on camera.
But that ain’t gonna happen. Instead some hapless and bewildered cop will lasso me and assemble every able-bodied male in the vicinity to pull on his end of the rope like they’re dragging a dead elephant out of a ravine. That’s bound to end badly.
Cops will never be totally prepared for cripples. We’re just too whacky.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
The World's First Schizophrenic, Bipolar Store Mannequin
I never thought about it before but I guess it’s true. You can measure the level of inclusiveness and egalitarianism of a modern, advanced society by examining the diversity of its store mannequins.
Store mannequins pretty much all look alike except the female ones have boobs. None have genitalia. Store mannequins are all about the same height and weight. This summer the JCPenney store in Manhattan decided to shake things up by featuring some crippled mannequins in its windows, including one in a wheelchair and one double leg amputee. They weren’t the first store to do something like that. Kohl’s has had mannequins in wheelchairs before.
This was a noble and laudable attempt to challenge and radically change all the fucked up notions there are out there about cripples and our bodies. But I’m sorry to report that this grand social experiment was a giant failure. I know so because according to the JCPenney people, public reaction to the crippled mannequins was overwhelmingly positive. That’s a real shame. Because radical change never occurs without pissing somebody off. The more fucked up a notion, the harder it dies. That’s what makes it so fucked up. I believe it was Frederick Douglass who first said that.
And some notions about cripples and our bodies are so monumentally fucked up that surely they won’t die without considerable backlash. It can’t be that easy. These notions are rooted in supremacy and when supremacy feels threatened it attacks. So I would have felt much more encouraged had someone firebombed the windows featuring the crippled mannequins or busted the windows and stolen the crippled mannequins and hung them in effigy or dragged them through the town square tied to car bumpers. Then I’d know we were really getting somewhere. Then I’d know we were getting down to the root of it all.
Nevertheless, I appreciate the effort and it has inspired me to open a store of my own someday so I can pick up where JCPenney left off. I’ll feature the world’s first schizophrenic, bipolar mannequin. I’ll make a big deal out of it. I’ll have the mayor come for the great unveiling. And when the shroud is removed it’ll be just an ordinary mannequin wearing ordinary clothes. It looks just like the guy next door or the guy in the next cubicle. It looks like you and me. And maybe the assembled crowd will be pissed off at me for teasing them like that, for promising them a freak show and turning it instead into a cheap lesson on acceptance. Maybe they’ll feel so cheated that they’ll riot! Won’t that be great?
Actually, if I want to truly and accurately represent the full human spectrum of schizophrenic, bipolar people, I’ll have to have two mannequins. One of them with have to have boobs.
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Contributing to the tip jar, purchasing books and subscribing through Amazon Kindle keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Store mannequins pretty much all look alike except the female ones have boobs. None have genitalia. Store mannequins are all about the same height and weight. This summer the JCPenney store in Manhattan decided to shake things up by featuring some crippled mannequins in its windows, including one in a wheelchair and one double leg amputee. They weren’t the first store to do something like that. Kohl’s has had mannequins in wheelchairs before.
This was a noble and laudable attempt to challenge and radically change all the fucked up notions there are out there about cripples and our bodies. But I’m sorry to report that this grand social experiment was a giant failure. I know so because according to the JCPenney people, public reaction to the crippled mannequins was overwhelmingly positive. That’s a real shame. Because radical change never occurs without pissing somebody off. The more fucked up a notion, the harder it dies. That’s what makes it so fucked up. I believe it was Frederick Douglass who first said that.
And some notions about cripples and our bodies are so monumentally fucked up that surely they won’t die without considerable backlash. It can’t be that easy. These notions are rooted in supremacy and when supremacy feels threatened it attacks. So I would have felt much more encouraged had someone firebombed the windows featuring the crippled mannequins or busted the windows and stolen the crippled mannequins and hung them in effigy or dragged them through the town square tied to car bumpers. Then I’d know we were really getting somewhere. Then I’d know we were getting down to the root of it all.
Nevertheless, I appreciate the effort and it has inspired me to open a store of my own someday so I can pick up where JCPenney left off. I’ll feature the world’s first schizophrenic, bipolar mannequin. I’ll make a big deal out of it. I’ll have the mayor come for the great unveiling. And when the shroud is removed it’ll be just an ordinary mannequin wearing ordinary clothes. It looks just like the guy next door or the guy in the next cubicle. It looks like you and me. And maybe the assembled crowd will be pissed off at me for teasing them like that, for promising them a freak show and turning it instead into a cheap lesson on acceptance. Maybe they’ll feel so cheated that they’ll riot! Won’t that be great?
Actually, if I want to truly and accurately represent the full human spectrum of schizophrenic, bipolar people, I’ll have to have two mannequins. One of them with have to have boobs.
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Contributing to the tip jar, purchasing books and subscribing through Amazon Kindle keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
My Life is Ruined
I’ve always known that a lot of cripples don’t trust hands-free, voice recognition technology. Voice recognition technology is half deaf. You tell your computer or phone to go to google.com and it goes to gargle.com or poodle.com or bugle.com or God knows where the hell else.
I know voice recognition technology can still be a pain in the ass. But I never knew it could ruin my life.
But it all began when Fiona, one of the pit crew members here at Smart Ass Cripple HQ, saw what appeared to be a cockroach in the kitchen. I called my building manager to report the roach sighting and my building manager called an exterminator.
This was right after I got my first cell phone, which is mounted in a removable bracket to my wheelchair. And the phone is trained to recognize my voice so I don’t always have to touch the screen to make calls or look stuff up. And it’s trained to ignore everything I say until I first say, “okay google now." Then the screen lights up and the phone awaits further instructions. And I tell it to call so-and-so or look up this and that and it makes a sound like “bleeeooop” and it obeys my command.
The problem is, my phone either has impacted wax in its ears or it’s not too bright or it’s possessed by a smart ass demon. Because I’ll tell it to do something like call Manny and sometimes it will first try to call Greg or Doug or Fred or Maria of Rahnee or Sullivan or my Aunt Gerry or my bank or my building manager or every damn person in the universe except Manny. And sometimes it doesn’t even wait for me to say “okay google now." Once I was talking to some people and my phone went “bleeeoop” and for some reason it performed an internet search of the words, “I’m a little girl.”
The exterminator diligently inspected my kitchen counter. My building manager and I watched from behind. I told the exterminator Fiona saw a big black bug.
“Bleeeooop!” went my phone. Except it thought I said big black butt. And it took me to a porn site displaying several pictures of large black women shaking and flaunting their bare butts. My building manager maintained a poker face and pretended like he didn’t see a thing. But I know he did. And he probably said to himself, “Damn, can’t this pervert wait five minutes until we leave?”
And that’s not the only time my phone has done that. Sometimes I tell it to go to cubs.com so I can check the baseball scores. And it’s taken me to cum.com and cums.com. You can imagine what those sites are like.
So now my life is ruined because we live in an age where there is no privacy. Everything you do on the internet becomes part of your permanent record, just like your grade school principal warned. It’s all forever stored in a computer of an evil spy apparatus like the NSA or Google. And anybody with the determination and wherewithal to dig it up can dig it up. So if I ever run for public office my opponent will unearth my visit to the big black butt porn site and put it in an attack ad. How will I ever defend myself? “Well you see, one day Fiona discovered a cockroach and…” Who’d believe it?
And I’ll never be able to get a job or apartment that requires a background check. The only jobs I’ll be able to get are ones where they consider the fact that I've searched the internet using the words big black butt and I'm a little girl to be a plus.
Either way my life is ruined.
I know voice recognition technology can still be a pain in the ass. But I never knew it could ruin my life.
But it all began when Fiona, one of the pit crew members here at Smart Ass Cripple HQ, saw what appeared to be a cockroach in the kitchen. I called my building manager to report the roach sighting and my building manager called an exterminator.
This was right after I got my first cell phone, which is mounted in a removable bracket to my wheelchair. And the phone is trained to recognize my voice so I don’t always have to touch the screen to make calls or look stuff up. And it’s trained to ignore everything I say until I first say, “okay google now." Then the screen lights up and the phone awaits further instructions. And I tell it to call so-and-so or look up this and that and it makes a sound like “bleeeooop” and it obeys my command.
The problem is, my phone either has impacted wax in its ears or it’s not too bright or it’s possessed by a smart ass demon. Because I’ll tell it to do something like call Manny and sometimes it will first try to call Greg or Doug or Fred or Maria of Rahnee or Sullivan or my Aunt Gerry or my bank or my building manager or every damn person in the universe except Manny. And sometimes it doesn’t even wait for me to say “okay google now." Once I was talking to some people and my phone went “bleeeoop” and for some reason it performed an internet search of the words, “I’m a little girl.”
The exterminator diligently inspected my kitchen counter. My building manager and I watched from behind. I told the exterminator Fiona saw a big black bug.
“Bleeeooop!” went my phone. Except it thought I said big black butt. And it took me to a porn site displaying several pictures of large black women shaking and flaunting their bare butts. My building manager maintained a poker face and pretended like he didn’t see a thing. But I know he did. And he probably said to himself, “Damn, can’t this pervert wait five minutes until we leave?”
And that’s not the only time my phone has done that. Sometimes I tell it to go to cubs.com so I can check the baseball scores. And it’s taken me to cum.com and cums.com. You can imagine what those sites are like.
So now my life is ruined because we live in an age where there is no privacy. Everything you do on the internet becomes part of your permanent record, just like your grade school principal warned. It’s all forever stored in a computer of an evil spy apparatus like the NSA or Google. And anybody with the determination and wherewithal to dig it up can dig it up. So if I ever run for public office my opponent will unearth my visit to the big black butt porn site and put it in an attack ad. How will I ever defend myself? “Well you see, one day Fiona discovered a cockroach and…” Who’d believe it?
And I’ll never be able to get a job or apartment that requires a background check. The only jobs I’ll be able to get are ones where they consider the fact that I've searched the internet using the words big black butt and I'm a little girl to be a plus.
Either way my life is ruined.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
I Just Want to be Treated Like the Quarterback Who Won the Super Bowl
It seems a bunch of families with crippled kids are suing Disney and dammit, I want to join them! I wonder if I could file an amicus brief on their behalf in the name of Smart Ass Cripple. That ought to help their case.
These parents are hoppin’ mad because Disney instituted new rules that make it a lot harder for crippled kids to avoid waiting in long lines for the attractions at Disney theme parks. There once was a glorious time when any family with a kid who was or claimed to be crippled could pretty much cut right to the front of Disney waiting lines. But now you have to get what’s called a Disability Access Service Card. And to get one of those you have to wait in line. One of the suing parents said she waited in line for 90 minutes to get a card for an autistic 6 year old. And then if you flash your card at one of the rides you don’t have to wait in line but you can’t just proceed ahead to ride the ride either. You’ll be given a return time based on current wait estimates and you can go wait somewhere else until that time comes. But you still have to wait.
The Disney people said they had to make this change because there were too many cases of fake cripples abusing Disney’s generosity. I don’t know if there are any confirmed cases of anyone pretending to be an autistic six year old just to avoid waiting in line.
But all this has me hoppin’ mad too. I’m vehemently against anything that undermines my ancient, unwritten right to cut to the front of waiting lines just because I’m crippled. It used to be, way back when I was a criplet, that I would be whisked to the front of just about any waiting line anywhere like I was a damn sultan or something. But in the ensuing decades activists demanded that the dominant power structure treat cripples equally with everyone else. And the dominant power structure has proven itself all too happy to meet our demand for equal treatment when it comes to waiting in line.
When I go to Disneyland or Disney Whatever, I don’t want to be treated the same as everyone else. I just want to be treated the same as the quarterback who won the Super Bowl. You know damn well the Disney people don’t make him wait in any stinkin’ line. I’m sure he prances right on in and gets a big wet tongue kiss from Goofy. No one makes him go to guest services and sign up for a Quarterback Who Won the Super Bowl Access Service Card.
If Disney prevails in court and this once-great refuge of cripple line crashing fades away like the setting sun, all those who are determined not to wait their turn in line will have to try another scam. They’ll have to fake like they’re the quarterback who won the Super Bowl.
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Contributing to the tip jar, purchasing books and subscribing through Amazon Kindle keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
These parents are hoppin’ mad because Disney instituted new rules that make it a lot harder for crippled kids to avoid waiting in long lines for the attractions at Disney theme parks. There once was a glorious time when any family with a kid who was or claimed to be crippled could pretty much cut right to the front of Disney waiting lines. But now you have to get what’s called a Disability Access Service Card. And to get one of those you have to wait in line. One of the suing parents said she waited in line for 90 minutes to get a card for an autistic 6 year old. And then if you flash your card at one of the rides you don’t have to wait in line but you can’t just proceed ahead to ride the ride either. You’ll be given a return time based on current wait estimates and you can go wait somewhere else until that time comes. But you still have to wait.
The Disney people said they had to make this change because there were too many cases of fake cripples abusing Disney’s generosity. I don’t know if there are any confirmed cases of anyone pretending to be an autistic six year old just to avoid waiting in line.
But all this has me hoppin’ mad too. I’m vehemently against anything that undermines my ancient, unwritten right to cut to the front of waiting lines just because I’m crippled. It used to be, way back when I was a criplet, that I would be whisked to the front of just about any waiting line anywhere like I was a damn sultan or something. But in the ensuing decades activists demanded that the dominant power structure treat cripples equally with everyone else. And the dominant power structure has proven itself all too happy to meet our demand for equal treatment when it comes to waiting in line.
When I go to Disneyland or Disney Whatever, I don’t want to be treated the same as everyone else. I just want to be treated the same as the quarterback who won the Super Bowl. You know damn well the Disney people don’t make him wait in any stinkin’ line. I’m sure he prances right on in and gets a big wet tongue kiss from Goofy. No one makes him go to guest services and sign up for a Quarterback Who Won the Super Bowl Access Service Card.
If Disney prevails in court and this once-great refuge of cripple line crashing fades away like the setting sun, all those who are determined not to wait their turn in line will have to try another scam. They’ll have to fake like they’re the quarterback who won the Super Bowl.
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Contributing to the tip jar, purchasing books and subscribing through Amazon Kindle keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
The Smart Ass Cripple Celebrity Challenge (Inspired by Petty Jealousy)
The people who thought up this Lou Gehrig’s disease Ice Bucket Challenge thing sure had a rare stroke of genius. It sounds like the kind of brilliant idea a stoner would have while really stoned. And then upon further reflection the next day, in a state of sobriety, it still really is a brilliant idea. That’s what makes it so rare.
“Hey guys, I got an idea. Let’s get a celebrity to dump a bucket of cold water over their head and then give us money to do it!” And the guilt/peer-pressure card is brilliantly played too. Who is going to say no to a challenge and come off looking like a soulless, Lou-Gehrig’s-disease-lovin’ Scrooge?
The goal is to raise money and awareness re Lou Gehrig’s disease. Money’s good. Can’t have enough of that. I’m not sure how necessary the awareness part is. Everybody knows about Lou Gehrig’s disease. Lou Gehrig pretty much took care of that part.
But anyway, my reaction to this brilliant idea that I didn’t think up is the same as my reaction to all brilliant ideas that I didn’t think up. I’m consumed with petty jealousy. But that's okay because petty jealousy is a powerful motivating force in my life. In this case, it has made me single-mindedly determined to come up with my own even brillianter idea to raise tons of money and awareness for the Feed Smart Ass Cripple Fund. Thus, I’ve been getting stoned a whole lot lately. But I believe I’ve struck gold!
Announcing the Smart Ass Cripple Celebrity Set Yourself on Fire Challenge! It works just like the ice bucket thing except the celebrity donates money to the Feed Smart Ass Cripple Fund instead of to Lou Gehrig. And instead of dumping ice water over their heads they dump gasoline over their heads and then set themselves on fire.
Oh and another difference is that after a celebrity completes my challenge, I get to issue the next challenge. I’ve also thought long and hard (while stoned) about the perfect celebrity for me to issue my first challenge. And I’ve decided it should be none other than Bill O’Reilly! He’s the perfect choice, since he is such a well-known symbol of that smug libertarian mentality that thinks the proper response to inequality is charity. Here’s his chance to give ‘til it hurts!
So come on, Bill. I challenge thee! Consider this to be a slap across your cheek with my glove! Imagine how many zillions of hits an internet video of you accepting my challenge will get. You’ll be a real hero!
And after O’Reilly, next up will be Sarah Palin and then Le Grand Douchebag Trump. And pretty soon Smart Ass Cripple will have raised a ton of money and awareness. I don’t even care about the awareness part. As long as people give me money, I don’t care if they know what it’s for. As a matter of fact, it’s probably best if they don’t know.
Contact Bill and tell him to accept the Smart Ass Cripple Celebrity Set Yourself on Fire Challenge at oreilly@foxnews.com
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Contributing to the tip jar, purchasing books and subscribing through Amazon Kindle keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
“Hey guys, I got an idea. Let’s get a celebrity to dump a bucket of cold water over their head and then give us money to do it!” And the guilt/peer-pressure card is brilliantly played too. Who is going to say no to a challenge and come off looking like a soulless, Lou-Gehrig’s-disease-lovin’ Scrooge?
The goal is to raise money and awareness re Lou Gehrig’s disease. Money’s good. Can’t have enough of that. I’m not sure how necessary the awareness part is. Everybody knows about Lou Gehrig’s disease. Lou Gehrig pretty much took care of that part.
But anyway, my reaction to this brilliant idea that I didn’t think up is the same as my reaction to all brilliant ideas that I didn’t think up. I’m consumed with petty jealousy. But that's okay because petty jealousy is a powerful motivating force in my life. In this case, it has made me single-mindedly determined to come up with my own even brillianter idea to raise tons of money and awareness for the Feed Smart Ass Cripple Fund. Thus, I’ve been getting stoned a whole lot lately. But I believe I’ve struck gold!
Announcing the Smart Ass Cripple Celebrity Set Yourself on Fire Challenge! It works just like the ice bucket thing except the celebrity donates money to the Feed Smart Ass Cripple Fund instead of to Lou Gehrig. And instead of dumping ice water over their heads they dump gasoline over their heads and then set themselves on fire.
Oh and another difference is that after a celebrity completes my challenge, I get to issue the next challenge. I’ve also thought long and hard (while stoned) about the perfect celebrity for me to issue my first challenge. And I’ve decided it should be none other than Bill O’Reilly! He’s the perfect choice, since he is such a well-known symbol of that smug libertarian mentality that thinks the proper response to inequality is charity. Here’s his chance to give ‘til it hurts!
So come on, Bill. I challenge thee! Consider this to be a slap across your cheek with my glove! Imagine how many zillions of hits an internet video of you accepting my challenge will get. You’ll be a real hero!
And after O’Reilly, next up will be Sarah Palin and then Le Grand Douchebag Trump. And pretty soon Smart Ass Cripple will have raised a ton of money and awareness. I don’t even care about the awareness part. As long as people give me money, I don’t care if they know what it’s for. As a matter of fact, it’s probably best if they don’t know.
Contact Bill and tell him to accept the Smart Ass Cripple Celebrity Set Yourself on Fire Challenge at oreilly@foxnews.com
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Contributing to the tip jar, purchasing books and subscribing through Amazon Kindle keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
A Smart Ass Friend With Circus Mirrors
Someone is playing a mean and elaborate joke on me. I bet it’s one of my smart ass friends.
It seems like every mirror I pass these days is a circus mirror. And these circus mirrors make me look like a crippled old man. There I am looking all Picassoesque—twisted and refracted. Or I look limp and amorphous like those melting Salvador Dali clocks. I look like I’m about to ooze right on out of my wheelchair onto the floor like a blob of dough with two terrified eyeballs bobbing and floating on top.
The circus mirror distorts who I really am. It makes me look as if I have one of those ballooned-out bellies quadriplegics develop over time. It makes me look surreal.
But I know it’s all a sick joke because I don’t really look like that. In my mind’s eye I’m sturdy and upright and clear-eyed and strong. And my mind’s eye wouldn’t lie. It’s amazing how my smart ass friend keeps one step ahead of me. It’s like he/she knows exactly where I’m going and just before I get there she/he replaces whichever mirror used to be there with a circus mirror. Like the other day I went to one of those fancy high-rises where the elevators are full of mirrors. And all the mirrors had been replaced with circus mirrors. And when I see myself looking all squiggly in the circus mirror it’s a jolt, just like it’s a jolt when you hear your recorded voice. And you know that can’t possibly be your voice because that recorded voice doesn’t sound anything like your real voice sounds when listening to it from inside your own head.
I don’t know what my smart ass friend is trying to accomplish. Maybe he/he is trying to make me feel like I’m one of those crippled old men that were in the adult cabins at Jerry Lewis Summer Camp when I was a kid. Those were some starchy old dudes. But I’m not one of them! I mean sure, I’m about the same age now that they were then but that’s not the point, dammit!
If I want someone to make me feel like a crippled old man I’ll go see a doctor who specializes in my specific type of crippledness. Those kinds of doctors love to remind cripples how crippled we are, just in case we forgot. The doctor orders a series of tests and then the conversation goes pretty much like this:
DOCTOR: Well, the results are in from all your tests and it’s pretty clear that you’re a crippled old man.
ME: I want a second opinion!
That’s why I avoid going to doctors who specialize in my specific type of crippledness. For me, the key to survival as a crippled old man is to mightily deny I’m a crippled old man for as long as I possibly can. If I convince myself that I’m a crippled old man, I might start acting like one. And I fear it’s all downhill from there
Friday, August 22, 2014
Spontaneous Combustion and Other Perils
There are two kinds of cripples in the world: 1) those that try to ride up and down escalators in their wheelchairs and 2) everybody else.
I belong firmly, squarely and resolutely in the latter category. If I feel like engaging in high-risk behavior that puts my life on the line, I don’t have to pop and maintain a wheelie on an escalator. All I have to do is any one of the following:
Call a cripple cab. You never know. I might get picked up by that cab driver named Madame Curie (Smart Ass Cripple alias.) Madame Curie dresses like a lumberjack. Whenever she picks me up, she hugs me and says something like, “I’m so happy to see you, sweetie! How are you, honey? God really blessed me by sending me here to pick you up today!” And then she loads me into her cripple cab and squeals away from the curb like we just robbed a bank. And sooner or later she gets into a near-miss rear-end or broadside or sideswipe situation with another driver and she rolls down the window and screams something like, “YOU STUPID ASSHOLE! CAN’T YOU SEE I’M DRIVING THE HANDICAPPED HERE? ROT IN HELL YOU SCUM!” And then Madame Curie turns to me and says, “Are you okay, precious?”
Ride the rapid transit train. You never know. One time the blue line train was merrily rolling through one of the tunnels downtown and a fire broke out. And so they evacuated the train by sending all the passengers down this emergency escape walkway in the dark tunnel. But that walkway is about a foot wide. It ain’t hardly cripple friendly. If I would have been on that train, I would have been just plain screwed.
Sit quietly in my wheelchair. You never know. My motorized wheelchair might spontaneously combust. Hey, it happens. I hear stories about it all the time. There was a guy in San Antonio last year who got so damn sick of waiting for Medicare to buy him a motorized chair that his family bought him one at a flea market. And then the damn thing caught on fire. A few years back, the company that makes my wheelchair had to recall a whole bunch of chairs because some caught on fire out of the blue.
Go to bed. You never know. Hospital beds have also been known to spontaneously combust. Between 1993 and 2003, the Food and Drug Administration received 95 reports of electric hospital beds bursting into flames because of shorts or fucked up power cords or too much dust in the mechanical parts or whatever. So when a cripple like me gets out of bed in the morning, we say to ourselves, “Whew! Thank God I survived another night of sound and peaceful sleep!”
Who the hell needs escalators? A cripple like me can tempt fate and flirt with death without even getting out of bed.
I belong firmly, squarely and resolutely in the latter category. If I feel like engaging in high-risk behavior that puts my life on the line, I don’t have to pop and maintain a wheelie on an escalator. All I have to do is any one of the following:
Call a cripple cab. You never know. I might get picked up by that cab driver named Madame Curie (Smart Ass Cripple alias.) Madame Curie dresses like a lumberjack. Whenever she picks me up, she hugs me and says something like, “I’m so happy to see you, sweetie! How are you, honey? God really blessed me by sending me here to pick you up today!” And then she loads me into her cripple cab and squeals away from the curb like we just robbed a bank. And sooner or later she gets into a near-miss rear-end or broadside or sideswipe situation with another driver and she rolls down the window and screams something like, “YOU STUPID ASSHOLE! CAN’T YOU SEE I’M DRIVING THE HANDICAPPED HERE? ROT IN HELL YOU SCUM!” And then Madame Curie turns to me and says, “Are you okay, precious?”
Ride the rapid transit train. You never know. One time the blue line train was merrily rolling through one of the tunnels downtown and a fire broke out. And so they evacuated the train by sending all the passengers down this emergency escape walkway in the dark tunnel. But that walkway is about a foot wide. It ain’t hardly cripple friendly. If I would have been on that train, I would have been just plain screwed.
Sit quietly in my wheelchair. You never know. My motorized wheelchair might spontaneously combust. Hey, it happens. I hear stories about it all the time. There was a guy in San Antonio last year who got so damn sick of waiting for Medicare to buy him a motorized chair that his family bought him one at a flea market. And then the damn thing caught on fire. A few years back, the company that makes my wheelchair had to recall a whole bunch of chairs because some caught on fire out of the blue.
Go to bed. You never know. Hospital beds have also been known to spontaneously combust. Between 1993 and 2003, the Food and Drug Administration received 95 reports of electric hospital beds bursting into flames because of shorts or fucked up power cords or too much dust in the mechanical parts or whatever. So when a cripple like me gets out of bed in the morning, we say to ourselves, “Whew! Thank God I survived another night of sound and peaceful sleep!”
Who the hell needs escalators? A cripple like me can tempt fate and flirt with death without even getting out of bed.
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