The Association of Future Blind Cab Drivers

 I used to think that those people who complain all the time about diversity were just a bunch of stupid  whiners. Why were they so threatened by the prospect of someone other than a bunch of white, Christian, heterosexual, uncrippled males always being in charge of everything? Why did they always jump to the conclusion that anyone else’s gain is necessarily their loss?

But now I’m not so sure, not since I heard about the  AFBCD. That stands for the Association of Future Blind Cab Drivers. This organization claims that it represents “the thousands of legally blind Americans who aspire to be professional cab drivers.”

The founder and CEO of the AFBCD is a militant blind man named Andrew Crapola. In an exclusive interview with Smart Ass Cripple, he said, “Let's face it.  Cab driving is a profession that has completely shut out blind people. And that’s because of the pernicious stereotypes that has always prohibited blind people from driving motor vehicles just because we can’t see.

 “But the freedom fighters of the AFBCD say , ‘So what if we can’t see. Everyone knows that driving a cab is a very glamorous thing to do. And if a blind person wants to drive a cab, we  believe that it is their inalienable right to be able to do so. Neither the government nor anyone else can tell us what we can do with our own bodies.’

“So we spend a lot of our time lobbying legislators, trying to get them to lower standards so that blind people can someday realize our dream of becoming cab drivers. That’s the key to achieving true diversity: lowering standards.”

If the AFBCD succeeds in accomplishing their mission, Lord help us all! Whenever you get into a cab, you’ll always have to make sure that your driver is indeed a white, Christian, heterosexual, uncrippled male. If not, get out fast!

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Faux Friends and Mentors

Way back when I was but a wee criplet, certain people came around

because, they said, they wanted to be my friend. And those people really

creeped me out. 

They usually were part of some charity that said that their mission was to make friends with cripples like me. They’d usually try to take us bowling or horseback riding or off to do something we didn’t want to do anyway. 

So that felt empty to me, like losing your virginity to a rubber doll. I don’t know why it was so important for them to make me feel like we were friends. The ones that came around were often teenagers and it felt like they were being my friend because it would earn them extra credit or something. Or maybe they’d put hanging out with me on their college applications under extracurricular activities to increase their odds of being accepted. Or maybe they were just trying to score points with some chick.

Whatever the reason, it always creeped me out when they came around. I felt like they were prostitutes, snuggling up to me and trying to make me feel like I was special for an ulterior motive. And as soon as they got what they wanted from me they’d move on to the next guy. So I felt it was best not to get too close to them.

And I would get extra freaked out if the people who came around trying to be my friend were also trying to mentor me. I was always suspicious of organizations that have mentoring in their mission statement. Because I thought that meant that they must’ve thought that what I really was looking for was for someone like them to show me the way. But didn’t feel like there was any one person out there who could show me the way and if I ever did want a person to be my mentor I would probably ask an older cripple. But now that I am an older cripple I resist efforts to match me up with another cripple so that I can be their mentor. That’s too much pressure! I know that if someone hangs around with me because they expect the to be full of sage wisdom, I’m bound to let them down. Because what the hell do I know? All I know is what has worked for me. But that’s no guarantee that it’ll work for the next guy, All they can do is try it (or not) and see.

But I suppose that when I was a wee criplet and I let those guys hang out with me for extra credit, I ended up doing them a favor. At least it kept them off the streets.

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Transactional Intimacy

Transactional intimacy. That sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it? I mean,

how can a relationship be both transactional and intimate at the same time?

A transactional relationship is all  business. And an intimate

relationship is, well, it’s just the opposite.

But that’s exactly the type of relationship that I have with the members of my pit crew, which is what I call the people that I have hired to come to my home every day and help me do all of the stuff that everyone has to do every day, such as getting in and  out of bed and getting dressed. The state pays them to help me so this is their job and my home is their workplace So in that sense, it is a business relationship.

But I often joke with them that this is the type of job where you may see your boss naked on your first day on the job. Because when they come in to get me out of bed, the first thing that they are likely to see when they uncover me will be my bare ass. I may even involuntarily entertain them with a medley of my farts– - there’s the creaky door fart, the foghorn fart and the motor boat fart. I got a million of ‘em!  I have great versatility when it comes to farting. But, sadly, I can't summon up any of them at will. They just come out randomly, and at the damndest times.  (I probably should say that I “subject them to” rather than “entertain them with” a medley of my farts. Because I think when you call something entertainment, that implies that it’s something that’s worth paying money for. And no sane person would ever pay money for that!)

And when they put me on the crapper, they’ll eventually have to wipe my butt, too.

Can you get more intimate than all of that?

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The Color Caucasian

 I wear compression hose. Those are those knee-high, tight-fitting socks that are supposed to improve the blood circulation in my legs.

They come in many different colors but the only colors I have them in are black and Caucasian.

I used to  refer to my Caucasian socks as my “flesh-tone” socks but then a woman set me straight. I don’t know if she was trying to set me straight but she sure did.                                                    

 She answered the phone one day when I called the pharmacy from which I used to order my compression hose. I said I wanted two pair and when she asked what color I wanted I said “flesh-tone.”  And she  said, “What color is that?”

 I don’t know who that woman was but I’ll be forever in her debt because that really got me to thinking, How presumptuous it was of me to automatically  assume that flesh-tone  always meant Caucasian. I thought about Milton, the kid with two false legs who went to cripple elementary school with me. Milton was black but I don’t know if his false legs were also black. Because I don’t recall ever seeing Milton’s legs. I don’t recall ever seeing him wearing shorts. I never saw him in his underwear or anything like that. 

Maybe that was because that was back in the day when everyone automatically  assumed that flesh-tone  always meant Caucasian. So maybe Milton’s legs were Caucasian color because that was the only color he could get them in back then. And maybe he never showed his legs because they were a different color than he was and he was ashamed of them for that. If a secret like that ever got out, the other kids would probably tease him brutally.

 We sure have come a long way since then.

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So Far So Good

 

Every now and then, especially near the end of the year like this, I pause to make sure I still have a pulse.

So far so good. And so, after breathing a sigh of gratitude, I vow to keep on going.

 I recommend that everyone try this little exercise. It’s good for the soul. On a literal level, a pulse isn’t the sort of thing that you have to search out to make sure you still have one. You’ll know it if you don’t. But it’s good to check in with it from time to time just so you can fully appreciate what it means to have one.

For me, it means that I will keep on going. And when I say that I will keep on going, I mean  that I will  keep doing whatever it is that I do that causes  a pain in the ass for those who are up to no good. The more whatever pain in the ass that I am causing them can stop them or at least slow them down from being up to no good because  they have to deal with their pain in the ass, the better.

 If you’re not currently causing a pain in the ass for anybody who’s up to no good, it’s never too  late to get started. The first thing you do is identify some people who are up to no good. That shouldn’t be too hard to do. And then you figure out how you can cause them a pain in the ass. And then you do it. And keep doing it as long as you still have a pulse.

You might want to try reciting to yourself the following Prayer for Strength, as I often do::

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you so much for this pulse. Now please grant me the strength to use it wisely by bestowing upon me the wisdom to identify those who are up to no good and figuring out how I can cause them a pain in their asses.

Amen.                                                                                                             

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My Old Green Wheelchair

I sometimes wonder whatever happened to my old green wheelchair.

Whenever I get a new wheelchair, I keep the previous one around just in case. I put it in a closet and I break it out when the new one breaks down, which it inevitably will. I know that I’ll have to spend weeks swashbuckling my way through various bureaucracies in order to get it fixed and I don’t want to be left stranded for all that time.

So when my green wheelchair got old and I got a new orange one to replace it, I put the green one in a closet. But when the orange one got old and I replaced it with the blue wheelchair that I ride around in currently, I put the orange wheelchair in the closet. That meant that I had to get rid of the green one. I no longer had any room or need for it.

And I find it very hard to part with my old wheelchairs. I become emotionally attached to them because we’ve been through so much together. Giving them up feels like it does when you take a sick pet to get euthanized. When you leave them behind you feel like you’re betraying them and it takes days to get over it.

I managed to find a shoestring nonprofit that collects old wheelchairs and gives them away to needy cripples. I figured that this was an appropriately honorable way to dispose of my old green wheelchair. Maybe some other cripple could continue to enjoy it.

 I don’t know what happened to my old green wheelchair after I gave it up that day. Since then, I’ve come across some pretty needy cripples riding around in some pretty raggedy old wheelchairs. But none of those wheelchairs looked like it just might be my old green one.  If I ever do see a cripple in a raggedy wheelchair that looks like a could be my old green chair, I’ll probably feel really tempted to come up to them and ask them where they got it, just like a dog coming up to another dog and sniffing its butt.

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Smartass Cripple Appreciation Month (SCAM)

 

As every Smart Ass Cripple aficionado knows, December is Smartass Cripple Appreciation Month (SCAM). This is the twelfth annual SCAM, as established by President Barrack Obama in his 2012 SCAM executive order calling upon every American to “remember and honor the indispensable contributions Smartass Cripple has made to the enrichment of American society.” Thus, “government agencies, community organizations, schools, museums, cultural entities, institutes of higher learning, houses of worship and ordinary citizens are urged to organize displays, parades, exhibits, school assemblies and other events that honor Smartass Cripple.”

Obama took this action for two reasons. First, it was right after he was re-elected and let’s just say he knew he owed me big time. Second, he knows I have the worst recorded case of Attention Deficit Disorder. I can never get enough attention.

I had to make one small compromise. It seems that the names of all federal laws and executive orders have to form a catchy acronym, as mandated by the Catchy Acronym Creation Act (CACA). So I agreed to be known as Smartass Cripple instead of Smart Ass Cripple so that Smartass Cripple Appreciation Month can simply be referred to as SCAM.

 I’m anxious to see the many ways in which my fellow Americans rise to the occasion. If you’re inspired to put together a SCAM activity but you’re overwhelmed by the myriad of possibilities, I urge you to just listen to your heart.

It’s not too late to put together a SCAM event in your town.  You can organize a fun group activity that appropriately celebrates Smart Ass Cripple, such as a parade or an orgy.  (Please invite me to the latter.) Or, taking up a collection for Smartass Cripple is always a good idea. Since it’s the holiday season, I suggest you dress like Santa Claus and stand outside of stores ringing a bell with one hand and shaking a red donation kettle with the other hand. And send all proceeds to Smartass Cripple.

But if you still need ideas, one SCAM thing you could do is form a humanitarian organization called Habitat for Smart Ass Cripple and mobilize volunteers to build houses for me. That would be a good way for you to prove that you love me.

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