I don’t use much cripple equipment or “assistive technology” as the professionals call it. It’s not that I can’t find the proper equipment to meet my needs. Au contraire, mon cheri. You name a task and there’s some piece of cripple equipment to perform it for you. If you need your pencil picked up, there’s a robotic arm built with state of the art fiber optics that can grab it for you. If you need your ass wiped, there a bidet that shoots Rocky Mountain spring water.
And whatever technology can’t do, there’s an animals that can. There are highly-trained dogs and monkeys that will be by your side 24/7, ready to spring into action if you drop your pencil. And if you’re anything like me, you’ve known some crazy-ass dogs that would be more than eager to perform the same function as a bidet.
The array of assistive technology for cripples is so vast and dazzling that it depresses the hell out of me. It’s like those shows on public television where a bunch of bearded guys gut rehab a 14-bedroom Victorian house on Martha’s Vineyard. That’s all peachy, for everyone who can afford a fucking 14-bedroom Victorian house on Martha’s Vineyard. All those shows do for me is make me feel really really broke ass.
So it goes with all the cripple gadgets. You can have your house fully-equipped with gadgets and a menagerie that will do everything from floss your teeth to sing you a lullaby, as long as you’re Trump’s sugar daddy. Either that or you have to want that laser beam eyebrow plucker so bad that you’re willing to jump through all the flaming bureaucratic hoops it takes to convince Uncle Sam to buy it for you.
Which brings us to the subject of hospital beds. I could probably use one, but I just can’t bring myself to go about getting one. It’s beyond money. When I envision a hospital bed in my room it scares me, not just because it looks like a horizontal torture rack with a mattress. I feel like when you get a hospital bed you consequently give up all hope of ever doing anything kinky in bed ever again. I’ll never resign myself to that dark reality.
When you think about it, hospital beds can be excellent kink vehicles. They contort into all kinds of positions. Some have trapezes. And some hospital beds even give vibrating massages. But a hospital bed is designed to look like a deathbed. You can’t have a swinging bachelor pad with a hospital bed. You’re not supposed to do anything in a hospital bed except sleep, eat, shit in a bedpan, peruse Reader’s Digest and/or die.
I see they’ve starting making double and queen-size hospital beds. So at least we’re getting away from the silly notion that people who need hospital beds always want to sleep alone. But there still aren’t any heart-shaped hospital beds. Or why not a heart-shaped hospital waterbed? When I can have a heart-shaped hospital waterbed with leopard skin sheets, that’s the day I’ll be officially in the market.
I still won’t be able to afford it so I’ll have to beg Uncle Sam. That’s sure to be a demeaning exercise. I’ll have to persuade a bureaucracy that kinkiness is an essential ingredient for a healthy, well-balanced life. You’d think any living soul would find that to be obvious. But you know how bureaucracies are.