Boy, Was I Crippled

I was srtrolling down the sidewalk one fine summer day when I heard a voice from behind me cry out, "Hey cripple!" At first I ignored it. But then I heard it again. "Hey cripple!" So this time I turned around to see who it was. I figured if they were talking to me, they must be a good friend of mine. Because my closest friends would be the only ones who would call me that and not mean it in the wrong way. But when I turned around, I saw two guys that I never saw before . They both had shit-eating grins. And the taller one said to me, "Dude, that's the best bumper sticker I ever saw!" I figured that he must've been referring to the patch that was attached to the backpack that hung on the back of my wheelchair. i often forgot it was there. It had a blue background like those handicapped parking signs and on it, like on those signs, there was that white, stick-figure cripple in a white, stick-figure wheelchair. And this cripple was smoking a bong with the letters THC on it. And across the top of the patch, in white letters, was the word CRIPPLED. I had no idea what this all meant Maybe it was some kind of pothead slang that I'd never heard for being really super duper stoned. Like maybe something like, "Boy, was I crippled last night." I don't know. I just saw the patch in a store and I thought it was funny so I bought it and attached it to my backpack. The two guys approached me and the taller one said, "You deserve one of these." Out of the side pocket of his pants he extracted a metal one-hitter that was packed full of pot. With his other hand he flicked the wheel of his lighter until a steady flame popped up and then he held it all up to my mouth. I hesitated and looked around. After all, we were out in public in broad daylight. The taller one said to me, "What're they gonna do, throw us in jail? Fuck 'em, I'm a lawyer!" So I took a hit. And boy was I crippled! (Please support Smart Ass Cripple and help us keep going. Just click below to contribute.) https://www.paypal.me/smartasscripple?fbclid=IwAR2qrql-UFH19OepgeaCG4WmblyNylb27k2q8eYxXHH-nvFX30Mk2fJx9uI

Cripples in Television Commercials

If any pharmaceutical company finds a cure or an effective treatment for that which makes me crippled and they decide that they want to make television commercials about it, I don’t think that I’ll see any cripples in those commercials. Because I recently saw a television commercial about a drug that’s supposed to help you lose weight. The target audience for a commercial like that would be fat people (or people who think they’re fat), right? But I noticed how none of the actors in the commercial who were singing and dancing about the drug were fat. But none of them were exactly in tip-top shape either. They didn’t make anybody feel intimidated by the sight of either an honest-to-God fat person or someone in tip-top shape. So it seemed to me that the casting director was looking for “transitional” actors who looked like they maybe could have been fat once but still had a ways to go before they reached their ideal weight.I guess that was their idea of their target audience–not so much people who were already fat but people who didn’t want to be fat,. It made me we wonder what the actors would look like who would be singing and dancing about a drug that was a cure or effective treatment for that which makes me crippled, I don’t think that the casting director would dare put a bunch of people who look like honest-to-God cripples in the commercial. That might run the risk of being much too intimidating, in the same way that the sudden appearance of honest-to- God fat people might be too much of a shock to the system for the average viewer. And besides, people who have that which makes me crippled usually don’t dance very well. So they’ll probably have to cast uncrippled actors in the roles of all the people who used to be crippled but are singing and dancing now. They’ll probably decide that the target audience isn’t so much people who are already crippled but people who don't want to be crippled

The Rat Patrol

I see those little black boxes (that look like they’re made out of hard plastic) strewn about on sidewalks all over the city. And they make me think of cripples. There’s one outside of my doctor’s office building, one in the parking lot of the liquor store and several around a condo complex nearby. I don't know what they are but someone told me that they’re rat traps. That makes sense to me, given how many rats there are in Chicago, although I’ve never seen a rat anywhere near one of those boxes. Maybe their rat friends have warned them to stay away. And I don’t see how those rats get into those boxes anyway. They don’t appear to have entrances. They look like tool boxes. And I don’t know what happens to the rats once they go inside. Maybe there are little guillotines inside the boxes because the rats never come out. And that’s probably why seeing those boxes makes me think about cripples. Because I figure that the company that sells these boxes must employ a lot of cripples. Normally, that would be a good thing. But in this case, maybe not so much. Because Section 14c of the federal Fair Labor Standards Act allows companies to pay certain cripples less than the minimum wage. There is no legal limit to how little those cripples can be paid. And so, the company that sells those boxes has to hire a crew of people to empty all of the dead (and maybe even decapitated) rats out of them. They probably hire cripples to do that dirty work. They probably call them the Rat Patrol and for each dead (and maybe even decapitated) rat that they turn in at the end of their shift they pay them three cents or something. That encourages competition and makes those cripples get out there and hustle up those dead rats. And, most of all, they get to experience the dignity of work. (Please support Smart Ass Cripple and help us keep going. Just click below to contribute.) https://www.paypal.me/smartasscripple?fbclid=IwAR2qrql-UFH19OepgeaCG4WmblyNylb27k2q8eYxXHH-nvFX30Mk2fJx9uI

It's Probably a Good Thing That Bob Dylan Will Never Call Me

This is the true story of a little crippled boy. Actually, by the time this story begins, this little crippled boy had grown to be a crippled young adult. And he wasn’t little anymore. He had also become a big fan of Bob Dylan. This crippled young adult had a hot young sister who wasn’t crippled. She often used her hotness to get backstage after concerts she attended to meet the musicians. One fine evening, this hot young sister went to a Bob Dylan concert and she got backstage and met Bob. She told Bob about her crippled brother who was a big fan of his. She gave Bob the phone number of her crippled brother and she told him it would be nice if he called him some time. So Bob did that. And he gave his phone number to the crippled young adult and invited him to call him anytime. So the crippled young adult did that. And he talked to Bob Dylan on the phone frequently up until he died. But I sometimes wonder what I would have done if Bob Dylan called me out of the blue like that. Chances are, I might’ve messed the whole thing up because I probably would’ve thought it was one of my friends pranking me and I probably would’ve said something like, “Okay, Bob, you can Blow Me in the Wind.” Even if I had thought it was for real. I still might’ve messed the whole thing up because it might’ve felt too much like Make-a-Wish to me. And when I see that stuff I always feel real bad for the dying kid who’s being wined and dined not because the kid is dying but because i wonder if it occurs to them that the only reason they’re receiving all of this attention is because they’re dying and maybe all this is reminding them of that and just making them feel worse about it. And so I’d be tempted to say, on behalf of all Make-a-Wish kids, something like, “Okay, Bob, you can Blow Me in the Wind.” It’s probably a good thing that Bob Dylan will never call me. (Please support Smart Ass Cripple and help us keep going. Just click below to contribute.) https://www.paypal.me/smartasscripple?fbclid=IwAR2qrql-UFH19OepgeaCG4WmblyNylb27k2q8eYxXHH-nvFX30Mk2fJx9uI

More Free Meals

When it comes to cripples who really know how to play their cards right when hustling up free meals, I can’t believe anyone does it better than this couple I know. In order to protect their anonymity and not pose a threat to any of their future free meal hustling adventures, I will give them a Smart Ass Cripple alias and call them Bonnie and Clyde. Anyway, one day Clyde invited my wife and me to go out and eat pizza with Bonnie and him. He bragged about how he had scored a coupon for $5 off from a local pizza place and he wanted to cash it in soon before it expired. Clyde was the boisterous type. He did most of the talking for the two of them. Bonnie was the quieter one, just sort of along for the ride. She was a wheelchair user but Clyde was not. He had what is referred to nowadays as a developmental disability. My wife and I met up with Bonnie and Clyde at the pizza place. We ordered a big-ass pizza for all of us to share and they ate most of it. And when it came time to pay, Clyde threw in the $5 discount coupon like a discard in a poker game and that was it. We had to pay for the rest. But I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised. Bonnie and Clyde had a reputation for being food hustlers. You could always count on them to attend your meeting or event as long as there was free food or snacks to be had. And they always brought along recyclable grocery bags so that they could take home all leftovers But hustling is the name of the game for some cripples, especially those that are trying to survive on Social Security, like I believe Bonnie and Clyde both were. Cripples that are trying to survive on Social Security are always broke ass. After they pay the rent, there’s not much money, if any, left to buy other essential stuff like food. (Please support Smart Ass Cripple and help us keep going. Just click below to contribute.) https://www.paypal.me/smartasscripple?fbclid=IwAR2qrql-UFH19OepgeaCG4WmblyNylb27k2q8eYxXHH-nvFX30Mk2fJx9uI

My Daily Step Count

I recently read an article that made me feel like I’m surely going to die any day now. Reading that article was  probably supposed to make me feel energized and hopeful. But it had the opposite effect on me. 

The article was entitled, “Ways to Increase Your Daily Step Count.” It said, 

“One of the simplest ways to ensure you stay active is by increasing your daily step count. Walking is a low-impact exercise that can significantly improve cardiovascular health, aid in weight management, and enhance mental well-being.” The article reinforced something I’ve often heard before, that a lot of people (especially old folks like nme) are quite diligent about keeping track of the number of daily steps that they walk And they try to increase that number every  day for all of the health benefits listed above and more, But it’s easy for me to keep track of my daily step count. It’s zero. And it’s been that way since 1973, which was more than 50 years ago. At that time, I was an inmate at a state-operated boarding school for cripples that I call the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT). Several times a week I was sent to the physical therapy gym, where a therapist would put my leg braces on me and stand me up so that I could walk a few steps in the parallel bars.  My crippledness had gotten to the  point where a few steps was about all I could pull off. So on this day, when I sat back down in  my wheelchair after struggling to take a few steps, I felt stronger than ever that this ritual was pointless. I didn’t care if I kept walking or not. The day was coming soon when I wouldn’t even be able to take a few steps anymore. Why spend all this time and energy just delaying the inevitable? So I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to take another step until further notice. And here I am more than 50 years later. I wish that I would have made note of the date on the day  that I decided that I wasn’t going to take another step until further notice. But I didn’t realize at the time that it would become such a significant day in my life and one that I might want to celebrate each year. Nevertheless,  according to that article, since I haven’t taken a step in more than 50 years and probably never will again, I should’ve been dead long ago or at the very least I should be fat and riddled with cardiovascular disease and hopelessly depressed. But I’m not any of those things. I must be some kind of freak or something.

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My Diagnosis (If You Really Wanna Know)

 Often people get around to asking me what makes me crippled.

I then say what I believe to be true. I don't take the opportunity to make up  some bull shit, like some cripples I’ve known. I heard someone ask that question of a friend of mine once and she replied, “I got hit by an  airplane.” I don't blame her for saying something like that. It’s hard to be set up so perfectly for a joke and not take a swing. But I always just say what I think my medical diagnosis is. And then I  say I don’t know what my official diagnosis is because I haven’t taken the time to find out for sure. And the reason that I haven’t taken the time to find out for sure is because I really don’t care much what my diagnosis is.

A lot of people seem like they’re surprised to hear me say that. Maybe that’s because a lot of people seem to think that a cripple’s primary quest in life is to find out as much as they can about their diagnosis and then do a lot of therapies and exercises and shit like that accordingly, as if we’re preparing for a boxing match.

But most of the cripples that I’ve ever met aren’t motivated in that way. Like most people, what motivates them is they're just trying to get laid. And all that exercise and therapy stuff gets in the way of achieving that goal, unless you think that a physical therapy gym is the kind of place where you should hang around if you’re looking to get laid. 

I feel much more solidarity with those cripples who are just trying to get laid, which is another reason why I don't care much about my diagnosis. Maybe I  fear that the more I dwell on it the  more likely I am to run into people who are determined to cure me. Sure enough, there is a group that is out to cure that which makes me crippled. I try my best to stay away from them because  I ‘m afraid that if I get within sniffing distance of them they’ll try to recruit me. Although it wouldn’t do them much good if they did because about the only suitable poster that they could put me on would have to say something like, ”Please cure me so it’ll be easier for me to get laid.”

 I don’t think that would inspire many people to open up their wallets.

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Free Meals

 Another good thing about being crippled is that you get a lot of free meals out of the deal, if you play your cards right. 

It has happened to me many  times. One time I was eating alone in a Greek restaurant and when it came time for me to pay the waiter told me that someone had picked up my check for me. I wondered who that could be. I looked around and I saw an older guy across the room who was also sitting at a table alone. He held up his water goblet and toasted me. I thought about toasting him back to say thank you. But then I wondered if he might be some kind of pervert and the reason he bought my dinner was not because I was crippled but because he thought I was cute. Or, even worse, maybe he thought I was cute because I’m crippled. So I just let it be.

And then there was the  time that I went to the pub  I frequented often. This other crippled guy frequented it often, too. But he wasn’t a wheelchair cripple. He was what everybody used to call retarded.  (Don’t call them that anymore.} I don’t know what genre he was of. I just assume that he wasn’t Down Syndrome because they all look alike and he didn’t look like any of them.

Anyway,  he was always alone. He sat at the bar a lot and I never saw him talking to anybody else. But one day he came and  sat at my table with me. We ate and drank and didn’t talk much. And when the check came he snatched it up and walked away. But a little while later the server returned with the unpaid check. He said that that guy often drops checks on the bar without any money and  leaves. And I ended up paying the whole damn thing!

Now there was a cripple who really knew how to play his cards when it came to scoring free meals.

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The Association of Future Blind Cab Drivers

 I used to think that those people who complain all the time about diversity were just a bunch of stupid  whiners. Why were they so threatened by the prospect of someone other than a bunch of white, Christian, heterosexual, uncrippled males always being in charge of everything? Why did they always jump to the conclusion that anyone else’s gain is necessarily their loss?

But now I’m not so sure, not since I heard about the  AFBCD. That stands for the Association of Future Blind Cab Drivers. This organization claims that it represents “the thousands of legally blind Americans who aspire to be professional cab drivers.”

The founder and CEO of the AFBCD is a militant blind man named Andrew Crapola. In an exclusive interview with Smart Ass Cripple, he said, “Let's face it.  Cab driving is a profession that has completely shut out blind people. And that’s because of the pernicious stereotypes that has always prohibited blind people from driving motor vehicles just because we can’t see.

 “But the freedom fighters of the AFBCD say , ‘So what if we can’t see. Everyone knows that driving a cab is a very glamorous thing to do. And if a blind person wants to drive a cab, we  believe that it is their inalienable right to be able to do so. Neither the government nor anyone else can tell us what we can do with our own bodies.’

“So we spend a lot of our time lobbying legislators, trying to get them to lower standards so that blind people can someday realize our dream of becoming cab drivers. That’s the key to achieving true diversity: lowering standards.”

If the AFBCD succeeds in accomplishing their mission, Lord help us all! Whenever you get into a cab, you’ll always have to make sure that your driver is indeed a white, Christian, heterosexual, uncrippled male. If not, get out fast!

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Faux Friends and Mentors

Way back when I was but a wee criplet, certain people came around

because, they said, they wanted to be my friend. And those people really

creeped me out. 

They usually were part of some charity that said that their mission was to make friends with cripples like me. They’d usually try to take us bowling or horseback riding or off to do something we didn’t want to do anyway. 

So that felt empty to me, like losing your virginity to a rubber doll. I don’t know why it was so important for them to make me feel like we were friends. The ones that came around were often teenagers and it felt like they were being my friend because it would earn them extra credit or something. Or maybe they’d put hanging out with me on their college applications under extracurricular activities to increase their odds of being accepted. Or maybe they were just trying to score points with some chick.

Whatever the reason, it always creeped me out when they came around. I felt like they were prostitutes, snuggling up to me and trying to make me feel like I was special for an ulterior motive. And as soon as they got what they wanted from me they’d move on to the next guy. So I felt it was best not to get too close to them.

And I would get extra freaked out if the people who came around trying to be my friend were also trying to mentor me. I was always suspicious of organizations that have mentoring in their mission statement. Because I thought that meant that they must’ve thought that what I really was looking for was for someone like them to show me the way. But didn’t feel like there was any one person out there who could show me the way and if I ever did want a person to be my mentor I would probably ask an older cripple. But now that I am an older cripple I resist efforts to match me up with another cripple so that I can be their mentor. That’s too much pressure! I know that if someone hangs around with me because they expect the to be full of sage wisdom, I’m bound to let them down. Because what the hell do I know? All I know is what has worked for me. But that’s no guarantee that it’ll work for the next guy, All they can do is try it (or not) and see.

But I suppose that when I was a wee criplet and I let those guys hang out with me for extra credit, I ended up doing them a favor. At least it kept them off the streets.

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Transactional Intimacy

Transactional intimacy. That sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it? I mean,

how can a relationship be both transactional and intimate at the same time?

A transactional relationship is all  business. And an intimate

relationship is, well, it’s just the opposite.

But that’s exactly the type of relationship that I have with the members of my pit crew, which is what I call the people that I have hired to come to my home every day and help me do all of the stuff that everyone has to do every day, such as getting in and  out of bed and getting dressed. The state pays them to help me so this is their job and my home is their workplace So in that sense, it is a business relationship.

But I often joke with them that this is the type of job where you may see your boss naked on your first day on the job. Because when they come in to get me out of bed, the first thing that they are likely to see when they uncover me will be my bare ass. I may even involuntarily entertain them with a medley of my farts– - there’s the creaky door fart, the foghorn fart and the motor boat fart. I got a million of ‘em!  I have great versatility when it comes to farting. But, sadly, I can't summon up any of them at will. They just come out randomly, and at the damndest times.  (I probably should say that I “subject them to” rather than “entertain them with” a medley of my farts. Because I think when you call something entertainment, that implies that it’s something that’s worth paying money for. And no sane person would ever pay money for that!)

And when they put me on the crapper, they’ll eventually have to wipe my butt, too.

Can you get more intimate than all of that?

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The Color Caucasian

 I wear compression hose. Those are those knee-high, tight-fitting socks that are supposed to improve the blood circulation in my legs.

They come in many different colors but the only colors I have them in are black and Caucasian.

I used to  refer to my Caucasian socks as my “flesh-tone” socks but then a woman set me straight. I don’t know if she was trying to set me straight but she sure did.                                                    

 She answered the phone one day when I called the pharmacy from which I used to order my compression hose. I said I wanted two pair and when she asked what color I wanted I said “flesh-tone.”  And she  said, “What color is that?”

 I don’t know who that woman was but I’ll be forever in her debt because that really got me to thinking, How presumptuous it was of me to automatically  assume that flesh-tone  always meant Caucasian. I thought about Milton, the kid with two false legs who went to cripple elementary school with me. Milton was black but I don’t know if his false legs were also black. Because I don’t recall ever seeing Milton’s legs. I don’t recall ever seeing him wearing shorts. I never saw him in his underwear or anything like that. 

Maybe that was because that was back in the day when everyone automatically  assumed that flesh-tone  always meant Caucasian. So maybe Milton’s legs were Caucasian color because that was the only color he could get them in back then. And maybe he never showed his legs because they were a different color than he was and he was ashamed of them for that. If a secret like that ever got out, the other kids would probably tease him brutally.

 We sure have come a long way since then.

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