We All Have a Little Cripple in Our Blood

If you ever see me in a trance so deep that it seems like catatonia, don’t worry. I’ll snap out of it soon. I’m probably just watching my favorite imaginary TV show.

I have this free video streaming service that runs through my brain. The good part about it is that it carries all sorts of original programs that not only entertain me but also help me keep my sanity. The bad news is that the programs sometimes kick in at the damnedest most inconvenient times and places. They're usually triggered by stress brought on by encountering or remembering a certain type of ignoramus.

For example, my favorite show on my imaginary streaming service is simply entitled The Genealogy Show. The host is an affable, professorial genealogist. He’s bearded and 50ish. He smokes a pipe and wears a cardigan sweater. And the guest is always some cocky ignoramus who likes to pick on cripples and is in desperate need of some schooling. Like maybe as a kid he taunted crippled kids by calling them names like spaz or retard. Or maybe as an adult he taunts crippled adults by parking his car in our reserved spaces.

Host and guest sit in a warm den by a cozy fire. The guest looks defiant in the face of coercion, like a freshman in detention. And then comes the pivotal moment in every episode where the host says something like, “I discovered something fascinating about your family tree. It seems that your maternal great grandfather, Ezekiel, sustained a traumatic brain injury when he was struck in the head with a hammer by another farmer in a heated dispute over a sheep. This makes you 1/16th crippled.”

Then comes the emotion-packed moment of truth for the ignoramus. At first he/she feels the tearful joy of new-found kinship. But this is soon washed out by a tidal wave of shame for having picked so much on fellow cripples. But then joy returns with the realization that it’s not too late for redemption. And then the host says, as he says every episode, “And the moral of the story is, we all have a little cripple in our blood.”

The guest goes through a transformation of Scroogian proportions. Upon discovering a cripple reserved parking space, rather than snatching it up, he/she instead pulls out cans of blue, white and yellow paint and restores the faded markings.

The Genealogy Show doesn’t always have a happy ending. Sometimes the guest vehemently denies having any cripple at all in their blood and continues being an ignoramus, redoubling their efforts.

That’s when I watch my other favorite imaginary TV show, which is simply entitled The Lucky Number Lottery Show. It features the same guest, but this time the ignoramus dangles from the ankles by a rope above a tank full of pissed off sharks. Assembled are all the cripples that have ever been victims of his/her ignoramusness. Each cripple selects a number from a hat. And whomever draws the lucky number gets to cut the rope



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