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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Pony Charity

 

The following story is about the Bible and if there was a stack of them close by, I would gladly place my hand on top of it and swear to you that what I am about to tell you is true. Of course, that wouldn’t offer you any reassurance because the Bible doesn’t mean anything to me and if I was going to lie to you I could just as easily do so with my hand on top of a stack of Bibles. So, I trust that you will just trust me on this one.

It seems that some companies that publish Bibles will be putting out editions that they believe will be more accessible to people who have dyslexia. They plan to accomplish this by printing the pages in a new font that they think   will be easier to read.

Now far be it from me to yuck anyone’s yum when it comes to making things more accessible for any genre of cripple. If you want to do whatever it is that you do in the name of cripple access, more power to you, unless you run a nursing home or something. In that case fuck off.

But now I know what my wise old grandmother meant when she said, “You know it’s easy to feel like you’ve had a good day if you’re a missionary or a libertarian." That may sound like a compliment, but it’s the opposite. She meant that missionaries have reduced life down to its simplest terms. The purpose of life is to save souls. So if you’ve  saved a soul, you’ve had a good day. Libertarians have also reduced life down to its simplest terms. The purpose of life is to make money, So. If you’ve made money, you’ve had a good day. My wise old grandmother sure was wise.

This is also a good example of pony charity. That happens when a bunch of do-gooders get together and present some poor unfortunate family with a pony. They don’t ask the poor, unfortunate family what they really want because they know damn well that a pony won’t be anywhere near the top of the list. And the do-gooders always make a big deal out of the pony presentation. They invite the local news. The unfortunate family has to pr4etend like they’re tickle pink  to receive a pony!  Just what they always wanted! And when the cameras leave, the poor, unfortunate family takes the pony to the pawn shop and hopes they can get enough for it to pay the rent.

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When Your Wheelchair Saves Your Life

 

You never know when your wheelchair just might save your life.

My friend Greg offers a case in point: Greg used to live in Florida, in the part where there are a lot of alligators roaming around freely. You never know if you might turn a corner and suddenly encounter an alligator. Their omnipresence is sort of like bears in Alaska

But anyway, one day Greg pulled up in front of his home in his cripple van. He deployed the ramp and just as he was getting out of the van he noticed that there was an alligator on the front lawn. Oh shit! What should he do? He thought about closing the van up and waiting inside until the alligator decided to leave. But that could take all night. The alligator looked comfy. So Greg decided that his best option was to gun it. He drove his wheelchair full throttle and sped to his front door, hoping he could outrun the alligator. And that must’ve been what happened because Greg got inside his house safely.

Maybe the alligator was too comfy to get up and chase after Greg. I don’t know. But I do know that something  similar happened to me at Yellowstone National Park. I turned around and there was a buffalo. Not more than 20 feet away. I looked at him. He looked at me. I felt my heart pounding. I said to myself, “Damn! If he wants me, he’s got me!” If the buffalo decided to charge me, I was screwed! It wouldn’t matter whether it trampled me or not. If it would have started charging me, I would have died of a heart attack before it got to me.

But, judging by the perplexed expression on the face of the buffalo as it looked at me, it was probably saying to itself, “Damn! If he wants me, he’s got me!” And then it ran away.

I think my wheelchair saved my life that time because I’ve seen that same perplexed look on the faces of some humans when they suddenly encounter somebody in a wheelchair. And if the sight of a wheelchair can confound a human, it must be downright terrifying to a dumb animal like a buffalo. That’s probably what made it run away.

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The Rules of the Game

Sometimes I wonder if some parts of me cancel out other parts of me. 

Like for instance, I’m a Caucasian male, right? You’d think that would put me at the tip top of the patriarchy pyramid.  You’d think that I’d be perched way up there with all of the advantages and privileges that are the birthright of Caucasian males oozing out of every orifice.

But I’m also crippled. And that has always felt to me like it cancels all that other stuff out.  Like for instance, I was sent to a state-operated boarding school for cripples that I refer to as the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT). I might’ve been one of those gifted students who would’ve been placed on a fast track to the Ivy League schools. Or I might’ve been a dime-a-dozen mope with a C average. Who knows? I was never given a chance to find out because I was crippled and that was all that mattered. Cripples were sent to schools like SHIT and that was that.

I suppose it’s true that being a Caucasian male puts me at the tip top of the patriarchy pyramid within crippledom. It’s logical to conclude, considering the rules of the game, that a black woman who is crippled would have a much harder time making progress than a cripple like me. Every once in a while the patriarchy bends over and spreads its cheeks and says to an outside culture, “Psst. You can enter me now. But just the tip.” Thus, guys like me are the first ones to penetrate.

A few years ago, I was invited to be the commencement speaker at SHIT. I think I was invited because I am probably their star alumnus, even though I graduated from there 50 years ago.

Of all the people who have come and gone from that place throughout the years, I may be their best success story. Isn’t that sad?

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