Thursday, April 22, 2021

Peter Piper Syndrome



 The grinding anxiety I've been feeling lately could be described as Peter Piper Syndrome.

Suppose there was actually a guy named Peter Piper. There probably is one somewhere. He’s the offspring of a couple smart ass parents with the last name of Piper. But it’s inevitable that the life of somebody named Peter Piper would take a tragic wrong turn because he would be constantly bombarded with comments like, “Where's the peck of pickled peppers you picked?” After hearing that witticism for the 12 zillionth time, he’d be bound to snap and go on an axe-murdering spree.

I feel the same way whenever I encounter this guy who lives in the same building I live in. He sees me rolling by in my motorized wheelchair and he always says, “You better slow down or you’re gonna get a speeding ticket!” Sometimes he shouts it from across the street. He doesn’t mean any harm. He just doesn’t realize that I’ve heard that joke 12 zillion times. It’s right up there with, “Hey hot rod, you got a license for that thing?” And I don’t have the heart to tell him because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. So,  for his own protection, I go out of my way to avoid him because I’m afraid that if he says that to me one more time I’ll snap and “accidentally” take his legs out from under him and knock him down an elevator shaft.

How would Peter Piper defend himself in court? He’d probably have to throw himself at the mercy of the jury by claiming some sort of temporary insanity defense. He’d tearfully recount the excruciating torture of hearing that same fucking wise crack over and over and over.

I’d have to do the same thing if I went on trial for knocking my neighbor down an elevator shaft. But I’d insist that there be at least one wheelchair cripple on the jury of my peers. Because every wheelchair cripple I know has also heard that speeding ticket joke 12 zillion times. So there would be a good chance at least one juror could totally relate to my pain and refuse to convict.

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Wednesday, April 14, 2021

Expedited Shipping of Sex Toys


 I checked out a couple of sites on the internet that sell sex toys. I couldn’t help myself. I was too curious.

I had to know if these sites offered expedited shipping, where, for an extra cost, you can receive your purchase the next day.  Because all the other websites, where you can buy stuff like toothpaste and shoes, offer expedited shipping. And sure enough, both of the sex toy sites offered it, too.

I wondered what kind of sex toy emergency might arise where someone would absolutely have to have it the next day. I suppose there could be a scenario where someone has a hot date lined up and, like a dumbass, they didn’t plan ahead and here it is the night before and now they have to scramble in order to get everything all lined up.

I imagine expedited shipping of sex toys is illegal in some states. If so, I’m sure it’s probably states where there are a lot of tight-ass religious types in charge. The tight-ass religious types are the ones most freaked out about sex toys. It’s not sex toys per se that they have such a problem with. It’s fun that freaks them out. Fun terrifies them. Fun is the devil. And there’s nothing more fun than sex toys. Having fun is the whole point of sex toys.

I bet if the tight-ass religious people could have things completely their way, the sale possession of sex toys would be a felony. But even they must realize the futility of that sort of mandated abstinence. I bet humans have been playing with sex toys for as long as there have been humans, or reasonable facsimiles of humans. I bet Neanderthals made sex toys out of found objects, like pine cones and dead beavers. Playing with sex toys is one of those things like drinking and dancing. A good number of people will always figure out a way to do it, even if it’s against the law or mama’s religion. If people can’t buy sex toys on the free market, they’ll buy back alley sex toys and that can lead to all kinds of painful consequences, like tongue splinters.

So if the tight-ass religious types can’t completely ban sex toys, they’ll do like they do when it comes to abortion. They’ll find ways to limit access every chance they get. Making expedited shipping of sex toys illegal would be their sneaky little way of instituting a cooling-off period.

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Monday, April 5, 2021

Dancing With My Blower


 I hope I get an opportunity to dance again, at a wedding or something like that. Because a couple years ago I had this attachment added to my motorized wheelchair that makes it possible for me to drive the chair hands-free by blowing into a hose. I call this attachment my blower.

 I got a blower because sometimes it’s too difficult for me to drive with my hand, especially outdoors where the terrain is rough and/or when my hands are cold. It took a good deal of practice for me to become proficient at blower driving because it’s tricky.  You have to exhale to go forward and inhale to reverse etc. etc. I still have dents and gashes in the walls of my home that were created when I zigged instead of zagging while using my blower.

But now I’m a blower driving pro! If there was an Olympic downhill slalom event for blower drivers, I’d probably win the gold fucking medal!

But one thing I haven’t tried out while using the blower yet is dancing. I could dance pretty good driving with my hand. I could whirl my chair around in a circle and all. But it’ll take a whole lot of hard concentration to dance using my blower without flattening too many of the other people on the dancefloor. 

Whenever I go out on the dancefloor in my wheelchair, it’s inevitable that I’ll receive enthusiastic accolades from many of the dancing verts (which it what I call people who walk because it’s short for verticals). They smile big and applaud me or flash me a triumphant thumbs up. Sometimes the drunken ones cut in and make it a dancing threesome. This unwarranted 0effusiveness makes me uneasy because I fear that in their minds, by being out there dancing I’m demonstrating how brave and courageous I am. Maybe that’s why some verts get all overcome like that when they see cripples having fun.  Maybe they expect us to be so sad and tragic all the time and they’re pleasantly stunned to see us behaving the opposite. But really, I’m dancing for the same reason they are. I just feel like dancing and maybe I can think of a whole bunch of reasons why I shouldn’t but I say fuck it and go do it anyway. But then again, I guess that’s a form of bravery, when a person thinks of a whole bunch of reasons why they shouldn’t do something but then says fuck it and does it anyway.  I guess I don’t mind being seen as that kind of brave.

So when I dance by using my blower, some of the verts will probably be super duper overcome to see me on the dancefloor. But fuck it, I’ll do it anyway.

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