Thursday, June 23, 2016

Take the Lipstick Test, if you Dare

If you’re not crippled, do you ever wonder what kind of cripple you would be if you were crippled? If you're already are crippled, do you ever wonder what kind of cripple you already are?

Well then you should take The Lipstick Test. That will tell you everything you need to know. Here’s how it works: Imagine you’re so crippled that you can’t even put on lipstick. (Or maybe you already are that crippled. I know I am.) Maybe you’re so spastic that you can’t put on lipstick without making your face look like a roadmap. Or maybe you were born without arms. Or maybe you lost your arms because you were in a horrible accident or because you got drunk and tried to dance with a bear. Or maybe you have arms but they’re so crippled up you can’t even put on lipstick.

Whatever. When faced with this obstacle, which of the following cripples would you be (or are you)?

The Resourceful Cripple
: The resourceful cripple heads straight to the drawing board to devise a means to facilitate the independent, hands-free application of lipstick. The solution may be low tech. Maybe a wire coat hanger is fashioned into a lipstick applicator wand with a clamp on each end. The upper clamp holds the lipstick tube firmly in place at mouth level and the bottom clamp mounts the wand to the makeup table. The resourceful cripple bellies up to the makeup table, removes the cap of the tube using her/his teeth and applies the lipstick by maneuvering her/his lips around the lipstick as opposed to the traditional method of vice versa. Or the solution may be high tech. The resourceful cripple invents a voice-operated lipstick applicator drone. A tube of lipstick hangs down on a wire from the bottom of the drone. Upon command the drone takes flight and hovers in front of the resourceful cripple’s face while she/he applies the lipstick by maneuvering her/his lips around the lipstick as opposed to the traditional method of vice versa.

The Fuck-it Cripple: The fuck-it cripple says fuck it. She/he says, “Why should I expend so much of my time and energy trying to put on lipstick? I have so many more important things to do. I’ll just hire an assistant to put my lipstick on me.”

The Sour Grapes Cripple: The sour grapes cripple also says fuck it. She/he says, “Wearing lipstick is stupid. I’m not taking part in that idiotic ritual and anybody who doesn’t want to kiss my bare lips can kiss my bare ass!” The difference between a sour grapes cripple and a fuck-it cripple is money. A fuck-it cripple is a sour grapes cripple who can afford to hire an assistant.

The Cure-me Cripple: The cure-me cripple heads straight to the physical therapy gym and/or church, determined to be made whole once again. She/he spends 80+ hours a week exercising and/or praying. “Please God, if you give me my arms back I promise I’ll never again get drunk and try to dance with a bear.”

The Kill-me Cripple: The kill-me cripple heads straight to Switzerland in search of assisted suicide. The kill-me cripple says, “If I can’t apply lipstick anymore, life isn’t worth living! The indignity is unbearable! I’d rather die from a physician-prescribed lethal dose of barbiturates than die from the embarrassment of being crippled!”

Now that you’ve taken the lipstick test, what kind of cripple would you be (or are you already)? I hope this exercise was as enlightening for you as it was for me.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

Old Broken Down Waterpiks for Kripples

The day just started and already I’m feeling overwhelmed. All I did was roll from my bed to my bathroom sink and I’m ready to throw up my hands and go back to bed.

My Waterpik is busted! I thought I’d begin the day on a positive note with a refreshing blast from my mouth bidet. But all it did when I flipped the switch was grumble and die. So now I’m saddled with an albatross because you can’t just toss electric devices in the garbage anymore. It’s not environmentally correct. It accelerates the melting of the arctic ice and I don’t want to be an accomplice to that. Proper procedure is to take electric devices to one of the state-sanctioned electric device recycling centers and God knows where the hell those are. I guess I’ll have to look it up. Meanwhile , I’ll toss the Waterpik on the pile in the attic with the old phone and answering machine and clock radio and all the old broken down electric devices that I can’t just toss in the garbage anymore goddammit. That pile is getting bigger. Someday it’s bound to all come crashing down through the ceiling and kill somebody. It really makes me sad.

And it’s not like there’s some charity I can call to come haul the damn thing away, like Kars for Kids. There isn’t any charity called Old Broken Down Waterpiks for Kids or Kripples or anybody else as far as I know. So I’m on my own here. Now if I was an enterprising person I would see this as an opportunity to get rich, one of those lemons/lemonade crossroads in life. I would seize the bull by the udders and start milking! Maybe I’d start up a charity like Goodwill and I’d collect old broken down Waterpiks and employ an army of cripples to repair them or take them apart for scap metal or something. I’m not sure how starting a charity will make me rich but hey, if other people can do it, so can I!

I can call it therapy. I can say I’m using old broken down Waterpiks to help cripples improve their motor skills. How could anybody not be in favor of helping cripples improve their motor skills, unless they’re a communist?

People will donate their old broken down Waterpiks to me by the truckload! “Your generous contribution not only helps cripples improve their motor skills but it also preserves the arctic ice!” It’s a philanthropic twofer!

But I know what will happen if I try to pursue that dream. I’ll never take the second step. I could maybe rouse myself up enough to collect a million old broken down Waterpiks. But I’ll never have the patience or attention span it takes to recruit and employ hundreds of cripples with shitty motor skills. So instead of being stuck with one old broken down Waterpik, I’ll be stuck with a million. I’ll be surrounded by a million brutal reminders of how disgustingly unenterprising I am and why I’ll never be rich.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

An Adolescent Mistake

Sometimes the cost of living as a cripple can really bring a guy down. Like I just had to fork over $120 for a new goddam wheelchair safety belt!

At times like that I’m filled with melancholy and I reflect back with regret on some of the poor financial decisions I made in my life, especially in my adolescence. Like instead of being a broke-ass writer, I should have channeled my youthful energy into doing something that would’ve made me really really fucking rich!

And maybe I shouldn’t have blown the one and only chance I had in my life to obtain my very own free copy of Barbi Benton’s record album, personally autographed by Barbi herself.

Unlike me, when Barbi Benton was young she made a very wise career decision designed to make her really really fucking rich. She became Hugh Hefner’s girlfriend. That’s a really high-paying job, especially nowadays. Barbi was uniquely qualified for the position, if you know what I mean. I’m sure when the other applicants in the waiting room of the personnel office got a load of her cleavage, they all threw up their arms in defeat and went home. No contest.

So one afternoon in the 1970s I was at a department store with my mother and I went to the record section. But the record section was crowded as hell. There was a big hullabaloo going on. So I went to check it out. This woman saw me and elected herself to be the one to clear a path for me. She parted the wall of bodies like Moses and there was buxom Barbie perched on a stool, her album on display beside her. And then the woman said, “Barbi, look!” And she pointed to me. Barbi’s eyes met mine. I don’t remember what Barbi and I said to each other but I believe it was something like, “Hi.”

The next thing I remember was getting the hell out of there fast because I could feel a cripple photo op coming on— Barbi decides to make my day by posing with me and her album. And the heartwarming photo goes out on the newswires all over the world. And my friends give me shit about it for the rest of my life.

But oh how I now wish I would have stuck around long enough to get an autographed album. I probably could’ve even gotten one for free— the pity discount.

It could be worth a bundle today. How many autographed Barbi Benton albums can there still be in existence? It could be one of those items of memorabilia that’s so worthless that it eventually becomes priceless, like a Monkees lunchbox.

You never know. Sometimes silly shit like that ends up being worth more than the Mona Lisa. I could auction off my autographed Barbi Benton album to the highest bidder and buy enough damn ridiculously jacked up wheelchair safety belts to choke a horse.

(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.)