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!

Smart Ass Most Vulnerable Person

Should I be insulted? Because Obama went and did it again. He used the V word. He called us “vulnerable.”

Liberals like to use that word a lot. Vulnerable. With the jackass right wingers on a slash and burn scorched earth rampage, the liberals assure us that they, the liberals, will protect and defend the “most vulnerable people.” I assume that means cripples, though it probably means a lot of other people too like old people and infants and orphans and maybe even puppy dogs.

But when they say vulnerable, what kind of vulnerable do they mean? What image are they trying to conjure? There’s all kinds of vulnerable. There’s strong vulnerable and there’s pathetic vulnerable. There’s noble vulnerable and there’s obnoxious vulnerable. There’s oppressed vulnerable and there’s creepy vulnerable.

Maybe I shouldn’t be insulted because being seen as vulnerable has its advantages. It can land you a lot of women. Women always say they want to be with a man who’s vulnerable. But I don’t think they mean the kind of vulnerable the liberals are always talking about. When the liberals say they’re protecting the most vulnerable, they want everyone to picture them protecting a shivering baby chick just emerged from the shell. When women say they’re attracted to vulnerable, they mean not-afraid-to-go-to-the-opera-and-cry vulnerable, not shivering-baby-chick-just-emerged-from-the-shell vulnerable. What kind of woman would be attracted to shivering-baby-chick-just-emerged-from-the-shell vulnerable unless she’s a weirdo?

So I should be insulted, shouldn’t I? Because who the hell wants to be seen as a baby chick? Not only will you never get laid (in the grown man sense, not in the baby chick sense), but you’ll never be able to use fear as a line of defense. Insects are tinier and more squishable than baby chicks, but at least they can scare people the hell away from them by being ugly. But baby chicks are nothing but cute cute cute so their only defense is mercy.

Maybe I should just give up and go with the baby chick thing. I’m tired of standing up for my rights and defending myself all the time. It’s exhausting. Let the liberals do it for me. I should give up and throw myself on the mercy of mercy. Maybe instead of calling ourselves cripples we should call ourselves MVPs: Most Vulnerable People. And we should all wear t-shirts that say PLEASE DON’T HURT ME. I’M VULNERABLE.

If we do that, the liberals will make sure nothing terrible happens to us, won’t they?