Thank God I'm not Autistic

I’ll tell you which cripples I really feel sorry for. I feel really really sorry for autistic people. If I was one of them, I don’t think I could bear it. I’d probably stay home all day and hide in the closet. And because I feel really really sorry for autistic people, that means I also really really admire them equally as much. When I see them out there trying to make their way in the world in spite of the tremendous obstacles they face, I’m humbled by their courage.

Because whereas all cripples have to deal with a lot of shit, it seems like autistic people have to deal with a wider variety of shit than the rest of us. Like for instance, I bet they’re all sick to death of having to straighten out people who confuse autistic and artistic. “So you’re artistic, huh? Well, not me. I can’t draw a straight line.” I bet autistic people started referring to themselves as being on the autism spectrum because they all got sick to death straightening out people who confuse autistic and artistic.

Amputees and paraplegics don’t have to deal with shit like that because amputee and paraplegic don’t sound like anything else. And I bet the amount of shit autistic people have to deal with increased exponentially after that movie Rain Man came out. When I see that movie, I thank God I’m not autistic. Because if I was autistic I’d be constantly afraid of being a victim of mistaken identity. I’d be worried somebody would see me on the street and say to his buddy, “Look, it’s a Rain Man.” And then his buddy would say, “Hey Rain Man, what’s 4327 times 986032?” And my response would probably be, “4327 times 986032 equals fuck off.” Those two guys would then go around for the rest of their lives thinking every Rain Man is an asshole, which I guess wouldn’t be a totally bad thing.

But the worst shit autistic people have to deal with must be listening to people who swear up and down that vaccines cause autism. First, it’s b.s. But second, what these people are essentially saying is they don’t what to vaccinate their kids because they’d rather risk their kids dying of measles or whatever than living with autism. What the hell is that all about?

I don’t have that problem because so far no one has asserted that you can contract that which makes me crippled via vaccines. Thank God for that. At least I can cross that off of my shit-I-have-to-deal-with list.



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The Inflatable Sex Doll Ethical Dilemma

The older I get, the more grateful I am that I am not into inflatable sex dolls. I count myself very fortunate in that regard.

Because, like many cripples, the older I get the more crippled I become and the less I can do for myself. And one thing that sucks about losing mobility is that you also lose a lot of privacy. Like for instance, since I now need help writing checks to pay my bills and such, the people who help me write checks know all about what’s in my bank accounts. Not that there are any shocking revelations there, but still.

And this makes me wonder about my crippled brethren who are into inflatable sex dolls. I’m sure there must be some out there. Because there must be millions of people out there who are into inflatable sex dolls otherwise whomever it is that manufactures them wouldn’t keep manufacturing them. And since you find cripples in every segment of society, in every walk of life, then it follows that there must be a fair number of cripples who are into inflatable sex dolls. Why should we be any different?

And so, being the empathetic person that I am, I put myself in their position. And I think about how in my youth, if I had been into inflatable sex dolls, I would have been physically able to execute the whole operation independently. And nobody would ever know the difference.

But not so anymore. These days, even if I purchased an inflatable sex doll discreetly over the internet, I would need one of my workers to open the box. And I’m sure I would need my worker to inflate her, too, though I’m confident I could still execute the next phase independently. And if my doll sprung a leak along the way, I would need my worker to patch it.

So then I ask myself how I would react if I was one of my workers and I was faced with this ethical dilemma. First I’d weigh the legalities. It’s probably against some law somewhere to assist in inflating the sex doll of someone on public assistance. Inflating sex dolls is probably not on the list of authorized Medicaid tasks my workers may perform, though I suppose one could argue that it could fall under miscellaneous. But beyond all that, I’d like to think I’d be open-minded about it. I’d like to think I’d remind myself that I’m here to serve and not to judge. And nobody is getting hurt so why not?

But then again I might think the whole thing is just too damn creepy and quit.

I know myself. Fearing the latter reaction, if I was into inflatable sex dolls, I would not be able bring myself to ask my trusted and loyal assistants to inflate my doll for me. I’d resign myself to giving up this pursuit and I’d quietly mourn another loss that comes with the advancing of crippledness. But I’m not into inflatable sex dolls so why am I even thinking about this? There must be something seriously wrong with me. Sorry I dragged you through all that.



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Ahab Cripples

I’ve often been accused of being an Ahab cripple. Ahab cripples are those cripples who are bitter because they’re crippled and want to take it out on the rest of world.

These cripples are like Captain Ahab from Moby Dick. Ahab is pissed at Moby Dick for biting his leg off. So he drags other people into his obsessive quest to hunt down and kill the whale and thus get revenge. But the thing is, as far as I can tell, Ahab cripples are fictitious. I’ve never met one. Because first off, it’s pretty pointless. In Moby Dick, Ahab loses in the end when the whale drags him into the water and he drowns. But suppose Ahab succeeded in skewering the hell out of the beast, dragging it on board and running it up the flagpole in triumph. So what. He’d still be crippled. So what’s the point? I mean maybe if capturing the whale and drinking its blood would’ve grown Ahab’s leg back I might be able to buy it.

But I’ve never met anybody who, for instance, became crippled because they were run over by a car and was obsessed with finding that car and setting it on fire. And yet this notion that civilization is crawling with Ahab cripples persists and I think it’s largely because of Moby Dick. Don’t get me wrong. Moby Dick is a great book. I’ve got nothing against it. Some of my best friends have read Moby Dick. But I’m tempted to rewrite it just to try to counteract some of the bitter cripple shit.

First, instead of a whale, I’d turn Moby Dick into a chipmunk. And the story goes that Ahab is out jogging or something and suddenly an albino chipmunk shoots across his path and Ahab slips on it and falls like on a banana peel and somehow he loses his leg as a result. So he drags others into his obsessive quest to hunt down and kill the chipmunk. Moby Dick would then be a silly parody of bitter cripple revenge.

Or I might make the story more reality-based by introducing a twist where, after losing his leg, Ahab meets a good, ruthless cripple lawyer. Cripple lawyers are those lawyers that help people get hefty financial settlements after they become crippled. This would have given Ahab a much more productive outlet for his rage. He’d just have to sign the papers, sit back and let the cripple lawyer do the rest. A good, ruthless cripple lawyer will always find somebody to sue no matter what. In a case like Ahab’s, the cripple lawyer would probably sue SeaWorld for not capturing the whale before it could hurt somebody.

Cripples of the 21st Century don’t need to go on hell-bent vengeance rampages. We have cripple lawyers. Cripples are like everybody else. When we feel like we’ve got justice, we don’t need revenge.




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A Witness to Torture

The last time I visited someone in a nursing home I was horrified by what I saw going on. I was literally a witness to torture.

The friend I was visiting was in bed, his wheelchair parked alongside. In the next bed was who knows who. It was his latest new roommate. That’s how it is works when you live in a nursing home. You’re sitting there minding your own business and all of a sudden they install a new roommate whom you don’t know from your mail carrier’s cousin.

The roommate was deep asleep. And appearing on the television that was mounted high on the wall on his side of the room was one of those daytime courtroom shows with a super annoying and arrogant judge. And it was blaring so goddam loud you could probably hear it all the way in Kansas.

My friend said this new roommate blasts these judge shows all day. And my friend can’t get himself out of bed so he was stuck. And try pushing the nurse call button when you’re in a nursing home and see how long it takes to get an answer. And if you do get an answer, try telling them that you need them to come turn off that maddening judge show before you go berserk and see how long it takes them to come.

So there was no way my friend could avoid prolonged exposure to judge shows. It was like being locked in the waiting room of a Jiffy Lube. I submit that this is torture. Okay, maybe it's not physical torture, like having your eyelids stretched back over the top of your head. But it is psychological torture. Or at least it would be for me if I was in my friend’s position. Because what is the point of torture? To break somebody down, right? And so I started thinking about what if I suddenly had some Joe-off-the-street roommate installed in my home and he insisted on blasting daytime judge shows all day. I’d crack pretty damn quick. After about 30 minutes I’d be confessing to all kinds of shit I didn’t do! “Yes I kidnapped the Lindbergh baby! I’ll tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is buried! Anything! Just TURN THAT SHIT OFF!!!!”

The whole terrible scene really shook me up big time. When my friend’s dinner tray arrived, I said good-bye. I quickly left before he could lift the lid and see what was on his plate. I’d seen enough torture for one day.




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Rescue Cripples

That old dog in my neighborhood is still out and about. Every time I see him out on his walk he’s moving slower and slower. His walker walks about three strides ahead, looking back, the leash stretched fully taught behind him as the old dog tries diligently tries to keep up at a pace that vaguely resembles an amble.

Whenever I see that dog here’s what I say to myself: There's that poor old dog again. I’m amazed he’s still going! Look how he struggles. I wonder why somebody doesn’t put him to sleep.

And then I wonder if maybe some of my neighbors think the same thing about me when they see me out and about. Because sometimes I imagine I’m a pathetic sight to them indeed, struggling to drive my wheelchair over rough and uneven pavement. I especially struggle in winter when being bundled up makes feel like I’m bound in a straitjacket. My pace is slow and choppy. My companion walks about three strides ahead, looking back. And I wonder if this is what some of my neighbors think when they see me: There's that poor old cripple again. I’m amazed he’s still going! Look how he struggles. I wonder why somebody doesn’t put him to sleep.

And when I see that old dog it sparks this ethical debate in my head. It challenges my liberal sensibilities. I think about all kinds of deep stuff like quality of life and personal autonomy and the extent of society’s responsibility to take care of a lame old dog. I say to myself, But then again, who am I to say that somebody ought to put that old dog to sleep? I mean, he looks like he’s still enjoying himself. His tail is up. So I guess it’s not cruel to keep him alive.

Do my neighbors have the same ethical debate when they see me? He looks like he’s still enjoying himself. His head is up. So I guess it’s not cruel to keep him alive.

And from there on it’s the same debate I have in my head about the dog, except my neighbors substitute cripple for dog: Well isn’t it nice that that old cripple has someone who’s willing to take care of him and take him out like that. If that old cripple was loose alone on the streets, as lame as he is, then calling the authorities to come get him and put him to sleep would be the ethical thing to do. But as long as someone is willing to make the financial and emotional sacrifice it takes to keep an old cripple like that going, I proudly say more power to them, as long as it doesn’t cost me anything. It’s good that there are people in this world who take in rescue cripples.


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