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.


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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 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.


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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.)