The Shittiest Paying Shitty-Paying Job

I know there are a lot of shitty-paying jobs in the world, but the shittiest-paying job of all is being crippled.

Sometimes being crippled is a job that takes up so much time and energy, the government has to pay you to do it. (You think private enterprise in gonna do it? Ha! What’s in it for them?) That’s what Social Security Supplemental Security Income is for. SSI is what the government pays some cripples who are officially deemed too crippled to work a regular job.

The federal minimum hourly wage for a regular job is $7.25. That’s $1,160 a month for a 40-hour work week.

The maximum a cripple getting SSI can receive in a month is $771. Now let’s break this down in the context of a hypothetical cripple we’ll call Cripple X. Let’s say cripple X is crippled only for 40 hours a week, like between 9 and 5 Monday through Friday. (Of course no such actual cripple exists but just play along with me for a minute, okay? I’m trying to make both a point and a joke.) Cripple X collects SSI at the $771 max, which means Cripple X’s hourly compensation is $4.82 for a 40-hour week. Now naturally, Cripple X isn’t probably just crippled during regular office hours. Cripple X is most likely crippled on weekends too and after hours. It’s probably more like 24/7, so since there are 720 hours in a 30-day month, Cripple X really gets paid about $1.08 an hour. And there sure as hell isn’t any time and a half for overtime.

To be fair, the government did give Cripple X a cost of living increase of 2.8 percent this year. Last year, Cripple X got paid only $1.01 an hour for being crippled.

I hear scoffing. “Gimme a break! Being crippled isn’t a job!” Oh no? Well it sure feels like one a lot of the time. Somebody drags your ass out of bed and positions you just right in your chair and fastens all the belts and straps so that you’ll stay upright and balanced. They make sure all your tubes and hoses through which you may breathe or ingest or excrete food and liquids are properly attached. Then you’re ready to embark upon a potentially harrowing adventure, like going to the drug store, unless it’s winter. In that case you’ll first have to take about 30 more minutes to bundle up. And once you’re out, let’s just pray that the city snow plow hasn’t dumped a mountain of snow in front of the curb ramp. And if you make it to the drug store, let’s pray again that there’s not some asshole parked in your parking space.

That sounds like a pretty good day’s work to me. And even today, there a still some libertarian idiots who think the government shouldn’t pay cripples anything for doing all that hard work. All they would give us would be a lousy t-shirt


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Indignant for the Dogs

I used to live near a city park where people walked so many different breeds of their pet dogs that it looked like an audition call for the Westminster Kennel Club, with some mutts mixed in.

It was a big pick-up scene. People used their dogs as an excuse to break the ice, to engage someone with whom they sought further hormonal engagement, if you know what I mean. A couple humans would steer their leashed dogs in the same direction until the dogs were close enough to sniff each other up.

And then the humans started sniffing each other up. One said something like, “That’s a mighty cute Pekinese you got there.”

And the other human replied, “Thank you. And you have quite a schnauzer.”

I know the dogs didn’t know they were being cheaply exploited, but I felt indignant on their behalf. I was once in their position when I went to Jerry Lewis summer camp for crippled kids. It was also a big pick up scene. The same thing happened there. The male human pushing my wheelchair steered me toward a criplet girl in a wheelchair so we could sniff each other up. But I was never interested in sniffing those girls. Nor were they interested in sniffing me. And sure enough, there would be my male human sniffing up the female human who was pushing the criplet girl’s wheelchair. This has probably happened to every cripple who’s gone to summer camp.

Taking your dog for a walk in the park can be an aphrodisiac. It demonstrates that you are a kind, nurturing and sensitive person who isn’t afraid to show their tender side. That's a big turn on for some people. Pushing a criplet in a wheelchair around summer camp works the same magic.

I’m sure this mating ritual still goes on in parks and at cripple summer camps around the world today. So, speaking for the cripples, please allow me to take this opportunity to say fuck off. I’m not authorized to speak for the dogs.



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The Robin Hood of Commodes

I’m sitting in my cubicle in the emergency room waiting to be seen. Outside in the corridor is a commode. Beautiful commode. It looks shiny and new, probably yet to be Christened. I begin to fantasize.

Because I have a crippled buddy who would kill to have that commode right now. I shall give him an alias, so as not to violate the privacy of his bathroom habits. I’ll call him Bing Crosby.

Bing Crosby entered a phrase of life that every cripple enters sooner or later. One day you slither onto the crapper (or however it is you transfer). And then you try to slither back off but you can’t. You try and try but you just can’t. Your ability to safely and successfully slither is suddenly and permanently gone.

So now what do you do? Should you call one of those few people in your inner sanctum that you can comfortably summon in the event you get stuck on the crapper? Should you call the fire department? Should you keep slithering?

Regardless of the exit strategy you ultimately employ, you find yourself steeped in a harsh reality that you must rethink the way you take a crap. In Bing Crosby’s case, he knew it was time to hire assistants to spot and aid him as he slithered. He also wanted to reduce his amount of slithering. They key to achieving that goal was to acquire a commode on wheels. That way he could slither directly onto the commode from bed, roll from bed to crapper to shower and back again, reducing the need to slither by 50 percent.

Ah but acquiring a commode is not that easy. In a perfect would, there would be commode fairies that would appear in an instant to grant our wishes. But in this brutal world, commodes cost money. Cripples like Bing Crosby, who don’t have disposable income to blow on stuff like commodes, might be able to get Medicare to pay for 80 percent of it. I suppose having 80 percent of a commode could suffice, as long as that 80 percent includes the seat, legs and wheels.

But Medicare’s gonna want a prescription from a doctor plus a whole lot of paperwork. And then there’s the time spent waiting for approval or denial and the appeal.

You can get a commode in a flash from Amazon. You don’t need no stinkin’ prescription. They’ll sell a commode to anybody, no questions asked. But you gotta pay in full. No 80/20 split. The commode Bing Crosby has his eye on costs $250.

Bing Crosby is trying to get a big charity that says it takes care of cripples like him to buy him a commode. They say they’ll pay for the whole thing, but they still require a prescription and a whole lot of paperwork. Bing Crosby is a month into the process, and still no thumbs up on the commode. If any of Bing Crosby’s kitchen chairs had wheels on them, he’d probably say fuck it and cut a hole in the seat and stick a bucket underneath.

So as I’m looking at that gorgeous, alluring commode, I’m fantasizing. I ought just swipe the damn thing and take it right to him. Wrap it up with a ribbon and bow. To get past the ER security guard, I’d have to pose as a commode repairman or maybe say I’m with the FDA and there’s been a recall. Sitting on this commode makes your ass break out in hives.

I’m sure there are tens of thousands of cripples in commode limbo, like Bing Crosby. I should organize a band of bandits for justice who steal commodes from the rich, like big honkin’ corporate hospitals and nursing homes and medical supply companies, and give them to the poor.

I’d be the Robin Hood of commodes. Just call our toll-free number anytime. Free next-day delivery guaranteed. And you don’t need a goddam prescription.

By the way, the ER trip was a false alarm. I'm fine. Thanks for asking.


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Warning: Here Comes Yet Another Edition of Ask Smart Ass Cripple

Dear Smart Ass Cripple,

I need your help. I’m looking for a recipe for homemade gruel. I figured if anyone would have one, it would be you.

I am a billionaire hedge fund manager who just purchased a financially-distressed chain of orphanages for pennies on the dollar. But the bad news is, I now must find a way to feed thousands of orphans in the most cost-effective manner.

I really hope you have the solution!

Sincerely,
Bill, as in Billionaire


Dear Bill,

You are correct to assume that I might well know how to whip up a steaming batch o’ gruel. After all, I spent five years of my adolescence as an inmate in a state-operated boarding school for cripples, which I affectionately refer to as the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT). Thus, gruel was a common staple of the diet served the inmates.
But remember, I was not involved in the making of the gruel. All I did was try my best not to eat it.

However, your inquiry inspired me to try to track down the infamous SHIT gruel master, whose name was Tex. Much to my surprise and delight, I found him alive and well and living a quiet retirement in his home state of New Mexico. (Don’t ask me why they called him Tex. I guess it sounds better than New Mex.)

When I asked if he would be so kind as to share his secret recipe for homemade gruel, he laughed. Tex said making truly authentic gruel requires exotic ingredients that are very hard to find, such as the snot of a syphilitic yak, which is only available on the black market.

Because SHIT was a state institution, Tex said the food budget was way too small for him to able to make genuine gruel. He confessed that what came up on our food trays was powdered, instant gruel. Just add lukewarm tap water, stir and serve.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, Bill. Just tell the orphans to eat cake.


Dearest SAC,

My mother posed a question to me as a child that perplexes me to this day. She said , “If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?” I have tried in vain to come up with an answer and can only surmise that this must be a rhetorical question. What do you think?

Sadly yours,
Zoe Z. Zola




Dear Zoe,

Parents have been tormenting their children with this question for generations. It’s their subtle way of demonstrating their advanced intelligence. They take sadistic delight in observing our befuddlement

But you can tell your mom that you finally have the answer to her question:

Nowhere.

Because the truth is, it’s impossible to pick a pickled pepper. Pickling is a manmade process that involves fermentation in brine or immersion in vinegar. No pepper is born pickled. It must be picked BEFORE it can be pickled! The best Peter Piper could have possibly done was pick a peck of regular peppers and then pickled them.

Tell this to your mother and watch the smug smirk of superiority disappear from her face. She’ll realize you are no longer a child and have become, in fact, a force to be reckoned with.

This legendary tongue-twister ought to be abolished in the name of preventing cruelty to children. Or at the very least, it should be updated to, “Peter Piper pooped a peck of pickled peppers.” This would imply that Peter Piper picked a peck of peppers, pickled them, ate them and then pooped them out. I fully acknowledge that this scenario is highly improbable, but at least it’s possible. And it still retains its enduring, alliterative charm.




Dear Mr. Smart Ass,

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they're forever banned?

Lyrically yours,

Bobby Z


Dear Bobby Z,

The answer, my friend, is twelve.




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