There comes a time early in everyone’s life where you face a crucial decision: Do you listen to your heart or do you listen to your vocational guidance counselor? I had a hard time taking my vocational guidance counselor seriously because I figured if he knew so much about building a successful career, why the hell did he become a vocational guidance counselor? Behind every vocational guidance counselor is a broken dream. When kids dress up and act like grown-ups, nobody pretends to be a vocational guidance counselor. There are no vocational guidance counselor action figures.
Following your heart doesn’t always lead to glamour and prosperity. Lord knows Smart Ass Cripple is solid, living proof of that. But when you follow you heart, whatever happens at least you know where you stand. If you decide to play it safe and sell shoes, you might become a highly-decorated shoe seller. But you’ll always wonder if you might have been a great cellist. But if you try to become a great cellist, win or lose, you won’t wonder if you might have been a great shoe seller.
My mother tried to get me to go straight. She wanted me to be an accountant. But I could think of hundreds of other activities that would be more enjoyable, such as hammering nails into my skull. When I was home for summer break my last year of college, I had a chance to meet the guy in charge of hiring cripples for Sears. My mother saw this as a golden opportunity for me. Sears had a great reputation for hiring cripples and if I impressed this guy, she thought, there might be a good job in it for me after I graduated, such as writing for the Sears catalogue. She selected just the right tie for me to wear to the interview, but I said there was no way I was wearing a tie. I said ties are the most blatant symbol of the superficiality of bourgeois commercial culture! If somebody judges me by appearances rather than by the substance of who I am, I don’t want to work for them! I refused to play a role in that grand farce!
So I put on a tie and I went to Sears Tower. I go to the office of the guy in charge of hiring cripples for Sears and guess what? The sonuvabitch was blind! I felt so cheated! I wore that goddam tie for nothing! I could’ve showed up for the interview naked!
But my mother tried to save me long before that. She really did. When I was about 10, she had me watch a movie about the Bible. But the only part that stuck with me was the story of John the Baptist. A hot woman did a belly dance for a king and she said as payment she wanted the severed head of John the Baptist. And in the next scene that poor slob John the Baptist was dragged to the guillotine. Well that Bible story jazzed me up and after that I asked my mom to put a banana in my lunchbox every day. I had a working man’s lunchbox, black and shaped like a barn. I peeled back the banana, opened the lunchbox and hung the end of the banana over the edge. Then I said to all the kids at my table, “Look everybody, it’s John the Baptist!” and I slammed down the lunchbox lid and chopped off the end of the banana.
This got back to my mom and she asked if it was true that I was going around entertaining kids by decapitating bananas. I admitted that it was. And she laughed. She tried not to laugh but she couldn’t help it. She told me not to do it anymore. Then she walked away, laughing.
I realize now that was a pivotal moment in my life. My mother could’ve sent me away to a religious boot camp where they waterboard all the smart ass out of you. But she didn’t. She just laughed. After that I was destined to never take a vocational guidance counselor seriously.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
My Med-alert Life Saver Ring
Since I spend a lot of time home alone, I got one of those Med-alert Life Saver rings. You’ve seen the commercials. An old man is sprawled on the floor at the foot of his empty wheelchair. But fortunately he’s wearing a Med-alert Life Saver ring. “Heeeeeeeelp!” he cries. “I can’t get up!” But a Med-alert Life Saver operator, wearing a headset, says, “Don’t worry. Help is on the way!"
Med-alert Life Saver rings are inconspicuous. They look like an ordinary piece of jewelry. They come in silver or gold with your choice of a wide selection of fake gem stones.
I ordered a silver Med-alert Life Saver ring with a fake ruby on top. The instructions said for me to come up with a “safe phrase” to program into my ring. The safe phrase activates the ring, hands free. The safe phrase works on the same principle as the “safe word” in BDSM sex. You say a word like "pomegranate" when you want your partner to stop. It should be a word you would never otherwise says during sex, like "pomegranate," so there’s no mistaking what you mean.
Same with the safe phrase. When you say your safe phrase, your Med-alert Life Saver ring activates and connects you to the operator. So in order to avoid triggering false alarms, your safe phrase needs to be a phrase you would never ever otherwise say. With that in mind, I chose as my safe phrase, “Boy, syndicated columnist George Will sure is brilliant.”
Well it wasn’t long before I had to put my Med-alert Life Saver ring to the test. I fell out of my wheelchair head first and landed on the bathroom floor on my knees with my head in the trash can. Stuck in that embarrassing, ostrich-like position, I shouted out, “Boy, syndicated columnist George Will sure is brilliant!” And it worked! The faux ruby flashed! And soon, coming from the tiny speaker on my Med-alert Life Saver ring I heard, “This is Misty, your Med-alert Life Saver operator. How can I help?
“I fell out of my wheelchair! Please send paramedics!”
“Yes sir right away. And what insurance do you have?”
“Insurance?”
“Yes sir. As soon as I know who’s going to pay for the ambulance, I’ll dispatch one with alacrity."
“I’m on Medicaid! Please hurry! My head is stuck in a trash can!”
“Ooh I’m sorry. It says here Medicaid won’t cover the cost of an ambulance, not when you’ve got your head stuck in a trash can. That falls under the category of frivolous.”
“What? That’s bullshit!”
“However you do have the right to an appeal. The Medicaid appeal department is open every third Wednesday from noon to 12:30 p.m. If your appeal is denied you can appeal the denial. And if they deny your denial appeal you can appeal the denial of your denial appeal. And if you denial appeal is not once again denied then I can dispatch an ambulance immediately!”
“But I need help now!”
“Do you have Medicaid supplement insurance?”
“Yes! I have a Medi-bridge policy from Fidelity Of New York!”
“I see, you have FONY insurance.” I heard Misty tap away at her keyboard. “It says here whatever amount Medicaid pays for an ambulance, your FONY plan will match that amount, which in this case is zero.”
“Well I still need paramedics, dammit!”
“Well I can dispatch an ambulance immediately, sir, if you pay for it out of pocket.
“How much does an ambulance cost?”
“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
So I proceeded to tell Misty, loud and clear, exactly what I thought about Medicaid, FONY insurance and, most of all, my Med-alert Life Saver ring.
But then there was a knock on my door.
“It’s the police!” said a voice.
At last! Help finally arrived!
The police entered. “What’s going on in here? We got complaints from the neighbors that someone is shouting obscenities at the top of their lungs.”
Seeing me with my head in a trash can, the police put me back in my wheelchair, after first making me take a breathalyzer test.
If it wasn’t for my Med-alert Life Saver ring, I might never have been rescued.
Med-alert Life Saver rings are inconspicuous. They look like an ordinary piece of jewelry. They come in silver or gold with your choice of a wide selection of fake gem stones.
I ordered a silver Med-alert Life Saver ring with a fake ruby on top. The instructions said for me to come up with a “safe phrase” to program into my ring. The safe phrase activates the ring, hands free. The safe phrase works on the same principle as the “safe word” in BDSM sex. You say a word like "pomegranate" when you want your partner to stop. It should be a word you would never otherwise says during sex, like "pomegranate," so there’s no mistaking what you mean.
Same with the safe phrase. When you say your safe phrase, your Med-alert Life Saver ring activates and connects you to the operator. So in order to avoid triggering false alarms, your safe phrase needs to be a phrase you would never ever otherwise say. With that in mind, I chose as my safe phrase, “Boy, syndicated columnist George Will sure is brilliant.”
Well it wasn’t long before I had to put my Med-alert Life Saver ring to the test. I fell out of my wheelchair head first and landed on the bathroom floor on my knees with my head in the trash can. Stuck in that embarrassing, ostrich-like position, I shouted out, “Boy, syndicated columnist George Will sure is brilliant!” And it worked! The faux ruby flashed! And soon, coming from the tiny speaker on my Med-alert Life Saver ring I heard, “This is Misty, your Med-alert Life Saver operator. How can I help?
“I fell out of my wheelchair! Please send paramedics!”
“Yes sir right away. And what insurance do you have?”
“Insurance?”
“Yes sir. As soon as I know who’s going to pay for the ambulance, I’ll dispatch one with alacrity."
“I’m on Medicaid! Please hurry! My head is stuck in a trash can!”
“Ooh I’m sorry. It says here Medicaid won’t cover the cost of an ambulance, not when you’ve got your head stuck in a trash can. That falls under the category of frivolous.”
“What? That’s bullshit!”
“However you do have the right to an appeal. The Medicaid appeal department is open every third Wednesday from noon to 12:30 p.m. If your appeal is denied you can appeal the denial. And if they deny your denial appeal you can appeal the denial of your denial appeal. And if you denial appeal is not once again denied then I can dispatch an ambulance immediately!”
“But I need help now!”
“Do you have Medicaid supplement insurance?”
“Yes! I have a Medi-bridge policy from Fidelity Of New York!”
“I see, you have FONY insurance.” I heard Misty tap away at her keyboard. “It says here whatever amount Medicaid pays for an ambulance, your FONY plan will match that amount, which in this case is zero.”
“Well I still need paramedics, dammit!”
“Well I can dispatch an ambulance immediately, sir, if you pay for it out of pocket.
“How much does an ambulance cost?”
“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
So I proceeded to tell Misty, loud and clear, exactly what I thought about Medicaid, FONY insurance and, most of all, my Med-alert Life Saver ring.
But then there was a knock on my door.
“It’s the police!” said a voice.
At last! Help finally arrived!
The police entered. “What’s going on in here? We got complaints from the neighbors that someone is shouting obscenities at the top of their lungs.”
Seeing me with my head in a trash can, the police put me back in my wheelchair, after first making me take a breathalyzer test.
If it wasn’t for my Med-alert Life Saver ring, I might never have been rescued.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Arts and Crafts
Pine cones depress me. They mock me. They remind me of how dense I am and how much better my life would be had I only paid attention in arts and crafts at cripple summer camp.
Pine cones are definitive proof that I am not what anyone could remotely refer to as a visionary. Martha Stewart is a visionary. When she saw a pine cone, her pupils turned to dollar signs. She could make anything out of pine cones—a soufflé, a wedding dress, a fully-functional lunar landing module. And from that she built an empire and now she’s a bazillionaire and I’m still a loser.
But I never trusted pine cones because I never trusted arts and crafts. One of the ways you were required to have fun at cripple summer camp was to go to arts and crafts. At arts and crafts your materials were stuff like pine cones and Popsicle sticks and they’d try to get you to make something out of them. But I balked because arts and crafts felt too much like therapy and even as a pup I was suspicious of therapy because therapy, by its nature, has a hidden agenda. Whenever a therapist handed us pine cones or had us toss a bean bag into a trash can or whatever, it was always a calculated move. They were trying to “develop” something in us, like our motor skills or our socialization abilities or, worst of all, our self-esteem. And somehow they thought making stuff out of pine cones was the best way to achieve that. But I was noncompliant because I feared that they were trying to “develop” me into one of those placid cripples whose self esteem is rooted in their ability to make stuff out of pine cones.
And the therapists also were always trying to get you to be “self-sufficient,” which meant they were always looking for ways to help you again do all the things you were happy you had a great excuse for not doing anymore because you were crippled, like changing light bulbs. They’d rig up your home with an elaborate pulley system that lifted you out of your wheelchair and you’d fly like Peter Pan up to light bulb level so you could once again experience the satisfaction that comes from changing your own light bulbs.
But screw that. Here’s a joke:
Q: How many cripples does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: None. You have a therapist do it.
So I ran away from anything that smacked of therapy, especially arts and crafts. But I sure regret it now, especially when every time I turn around I see crap for sale with Martha Stewart’s name on it. I was at a pet store last week and I saw a display of Martha Stewart crap for pets.
If I hadn’t been so instantly turned off by pine cones and Popsicle sticks, maybe today I’d have my own line of Smart Ass Cripple crap! I should have taken their pine cones and turned the tables on them! Like the old corny saying goes: When life hands you pine cones, make a cancer vaccine out of pine cone extract.
But I’m just an unvisionary loser.
Pine cones are definitive proof that I am not what anyone could remotely refer to as a visionary. Martha Stewart is a visionary. When she saw a pine cone, her pupils turned to dollar signs. She could make anything out of pine cones—a soufflé, a wedding dress, a fully-functional lunar landing module. And from that she built an empire and now she’s a bazillionaire and I’m still a loser.
But I never trusted pine cones because I never trusted arts and crafts. One of the ways you were required to have fun at cripple summer camp was to go to arts and crafts. At arts and crafts your materials were stuff like pine cones and Popsicle sticks and they’d try to get you to make something out of them. But I balked because arts and crafts felt too much like therapy and even as a pup I was suspicious of therapy because therapy, by its nature, has a hidden agenda. Whenever a therapist handed us pine cones or had us toss a bean bag into a trash can or whatever, it was always a calculated move. They were trying to “develop” something in us, like our motor skills or our socialization abilities or, worst of all, our self-esteem. And somehow they thought making stuff out of pine cones was the best way to achieve that. But I was noncompliant because I feared that they were trying to “develop” me into one of those placid cripples whose self esteem is rooted in their ability to make stuff out of pine cones.
And the therapists also were always trying to get you to be “self-sufficient,” which meant they were always looking for ways to help you again do all the things you were happy you had a great excuse for not doing anymore because you were crippled, like changing light bulbs. They’d rig up your home with an elaborate pulley system that lifted you out of your wheelchair and you’d fly like Peter Pan up to light bulb level so you could once again experience the satisfaction that comes from changing your own light bulbs.
But screw that. Here’s a joke:
Q: How many cripples does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: None. You have a therapist do it.
So I ran away from anything that smacked of therapy, especially arts and crafts. But I sure regret it now, especially when every time I turn around I see crap for sale with Martha Stewart’s name on it. I was at a pet store last week and I saw a display of Martha Stewart crap for pets.
If I hadn’t been so instantly turned off by pine cones and Popsicle sticks, maybe today I’d have my own line of Smart Ass Cripple crap! I should have taken their pine cones and turned the tables on them! Like the old corny saying goes: When life hands you pine cones, make a cancer vaccine out of pine cone extract.
But I’m just an unvisionary loser.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Why Everybody Needs to Have a Lock of Smart Ass Cripple’s Hair
When economic times get tough, the ones hit hardest are the smart asses. When bosses get anxious and grumpy and lay people off, the first to go are the smart asses. Recent research concluded that being a smart ass to your boss increases your odds of becoming unemployed by 95 percent. (This research was funded by a grant from my favorite federal agency, the Bureau of the Obvious (BO). The BO supports research projects that tell us stuff we all already knew, such as jumping off a 30-foot cliff without a parachute is a bad idea. So then the surgeon general has to post a warning on all 30-foot cliffs urging people not to jump or at least wear a parachute.)
It’s not fair that smart asses are persecuted like this. It’s not like being a smart ass is a lifestyle we choose. We’re born this way. It’s in our blood. Any true smart ass knows this. Being a smart ass is a calling. You can’t just turn it off with a switch.
But when jobs are scarce and money is tight, everybody wants someone else to blame and smart asses are a convenient scapegoat. So I’m to the point where I have no choice but to sell my body. I don’t mean I’m going to sell off the whole thing, either in the medical or prostitutional sense. I know I wouldn’t have many takers. To paraphrase the late great smart ass Rodney Dangerfield, I’m in such bad shape, when I die I’m donating my body to science fiction.
The way for me to get the best bang for the buck for my body is to sell it off in pieces. The problem is, the parts that would command the princeliest sum on the open market are the parts I could never live without, such as my heart and my brain and “Hercules,” as I call him.
So I should start by selling disposable parts, like my toes. In my case, my toes are just decorations. But I’ve only got 10 toes so what then? So I should sell parts that are disposable and renewable! If I was a crawfish I could sell my toes because when you cut off the limb of a crawfish it grows it right back. It says so on the internet so it must be true. But even if I was a crawfish, amputation is painful so I should sell body parts that are disposable and renewable and painlessly extracted. My bodily waste meets those criteria, but I don’t think its worth much. I can’t even sell my piss to a stoner trying to pass a drug test.
So what does that leave me?
Hair!
And so I’m announcing this hot offer:
Anybody who leaves something in Smart Ass Cripple’s tip jar receives their very own lock of Smart Ass Cripple’s hair absolutely free!
No matter who you are or how you feel about Smart Ass Cripple, you need to have a lock of my hair. If you love me with all your heart and soul, then it’s obvious why you need to have a lock of my hair. You can carry a piece of me with you always. You can put my lock in a locket.
But even if you hate my goddam crippled guts, that’s all the more reason you need to have a lock of my hair. You can commit a heinous crime and leave behind the lock and it’ll throw the forensics nerds and sniffing dogs all out of whack and they’ll arrest me instead of you. Or a lock of my hair is the perfect finishing touch for your Smart Ass Cripple Voodoo doll.
And even if you’re indifferent about Smart Ass Cripple, it would be financially irresponsible for you not to have a lock of my hair. Think of what it will be worth 10 years from now to own a lock from the very first shearing! Just deposit your lock in a safe deposit vault, sit back and dream!
And think of it this way too: with a voracious demand for my hair, every time I go to Supercuts I’ll have to bring along a big bag and tell the stylist to sweep my hair into the bag so I can take it home. I’ll even post a picture of me and my hair bag on Smart Ass Cripple. How can you pass up a chance to embarrass me like that?
So act now, before I run out of hair! After that, you’ll have to settle for a nail clipping or bodily waste.
It’s not fair that smart asses are persecuted like this. It’s not like being a smart ass is a lifestyle we choose. We’re born this way. It’s in our blood. Any true smart ass knows this. Being a smart ass is a calling. You can’t just turn it off with a switch.
But when jobs are scarce and money is tight, everybody wants someone else to blame and smart asses are a convenient scapegoat. So I’m to the point where I have no choice but to sell my body. I don’t mean I’m going to sell off the whole thing, either in the medical or prostitutional sense. I know I wouldn’t have many takers. To paraphrase the late great smart ass Rodney Dangerfield, I’m in such bad shape, when I die I’m donating my body to science fiction.
The way for me to get the best bang for the buck for my body is to sell it off in pieces. The problem is, the parts that would command the princeliest sum on the open market are the parts I could never live without, such as my heart and my brain and “Hercules,” as I call him.
So I should start by selling disposable parts, like my toes. In my case, my toes are just decorations. But I’ve only got 10 toes so what then? So I should sell parts that are disposable and renewable! If I was a crawfish I could sell my toes because when you cut off the limb of a crawfish it grows it right back. It says so on the internet so it must be true. But even if I was a crawfish, amputation is painful so I should sell body parts that are disposable and renewable and painlessly extracted. My bodily waste meets those criteria, but I don’t think its worth much. I can’t even sell my piss to a stoner trying to pass a drug test.
So what does that leave me?
Hair!
And so I’m announcing this hot offer:
Anybody who leaves something in Smart Ass Cripple’s tip jar receives their very own lock of Smart Ass Cripple’s hair absolutely free!
No matter who you are or how you feel about Smart Ass Cripple, you need to have a lock of my hair. If you love me with all your heart and soul, then it’s obvious why you need to have a lock of my hair. You can carry a piece of me with you always. You can put my lock in a locket.
But even if you hate my goddam crippled guts, that’s all the more reason you need to have a lock of my hair. You can commit a heinous crime and leave behind the lock and it’ll throw the forensics nerds and sniffing dogs all out of whack and they’ll arrest me instead of you. Or a lock of my hair is the perfect finishing touch for your Smart Ass Cripple Voodoo doll.
And even if you’re indifferent about Smart Ass Cripple, it would be financially irresponsible for you not to have a lock of my hair. Think of what it will be worth 10 years from now to own a lock from the very first shearing! Just deposit your lock in a safe deposit vault, sit back and dream!
And think of it this way too: with a voracious demand for my hair, every time I go to Supercuts I’ll have to bring along a big bag and tell the stylist to sweep my hair into the bag so I can take it home. I’ll even post a picture of me and my hair bag on Smart Ass Cripple. How can you pass up a chance to embarrass me like that?
So act now, before I run out of hair! After that, you’ll have to settle for a nail clipping or bodily waste.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe
Sometimes I see the little criplets of the 21st Century whipping around in tiny motorized wheelchairs. These criplets are only five or six years old but they whirl and ricochet like wee maniacs. I lament because I sure as hell never had a chair like that when I was that age. My first wheelchair was basically a hand truck with a seat. I didn’t get into my first motorized chair until I was an adolescent at the state-operated cripple boarding school. And that was one of earliest, clunky model T motorized wheelchairs, as plodding as a brontosaurus.
The chairs today’s criplets drive are sleek and customized. They kick into gear and sprint. I try not to be bitter and jealous but it’s hard. Because I know if I had a powerful motorized wheelchair like that so early on, it would have drastically altered not only the arc of my life but the entire course of human history. The world would be quite a different place because with that kind of acceleration under my antsy butt, I would have soon ended up as one of two things: Either a) Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, or 2) dead.
Let us consider the second scenario first, since it’s far more likely. Sitting little me into one of today’s wild bull wheelchairs, flipping on the power switch and telling me to go for it would’ve been as dangerous and irresponsible as handing little me a chain saw, flipping on the power switch and telling me to go for it. Smart Ass Criplet transforms instantly into an adrenaline junkie, intoxicated by my sudden ability to zip from zero to maniac in two seconds! Feeling immortal and indestructible, I would’ve promptly slammed into a brick wall or played chicken with an oncoming train.
What a different world this would be if that happened. There would be no Smart Ass Cripple and you wouldn’t be reading this silliness. Think of all the more constructive things you could do with your time.
But had I somehow survived, I would most assuredly have gone on to be Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. As a child, it was my aspiration to become Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. My mother wanted me to be something more practical, like an accountant, but I had bigger dreams. I definitely had the drive, desire, devilish instincts and conniving nature to become Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. All I lacked was the horsepower. And by the time I took my first ride in a motorized chair I was 13, and you know how you are at that age. Oh sure, you’d still love to be Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, but not if you have to work for it. You expect the universe to walk up and hand it to you. And anyway, that first motorized wheelchair was as fast and nimble as a tank so it wasn’t conducive to becoming Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe.
Had I achieved my career goal of Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, life in the universe would be paradise. With Smart Ass Cripple in charge, all our problems would be over. Because first off, there would be no republicans. Republicans? Outlawed, by the first decree of the Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe! That right there would solve 80 percent of our problems. And also, beer would be free! All beer abundant and free by decree! That would solve the other 20 percent.
The chairs today’s criplets drive are sleek and customized. They kick into gear and sprint. I try not to be bitter and jealous but it’s hard. Because I know if I had a powerful motorized wheelchair like that so early on, it would have drastically altered not only the arc of my life but the entire course of human history. The world would be quite a different place because with that kind of acceleration under my antsy butt, I would have soon ended up as one of two things: Either a) Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, or 2) dead.
Let us consider the second scenario first, since it’s far more likely. Sitting little me into one of today’s wild bull wheelchairs, flipping on the power switch and telling me to go for it would’ve been as dangerous and irresponsible as handing little me a chain saw, flipping on the power switch and telling me to go for it. Smart Ass Criplet transforms instantly into an adrenaline junkie, intoxicated by my sudden ability to zip from zero to maniac in two seconds! Feeling immortal and indestructible, I would’ve promptly slammed into a brick wall or played chicken with an oncoming train.
What a different world this would be if that happened. There would be no Smart Ass Cripple and you wouldn’t be reading this silliness. Think of all the more constructive things you could do with your time.
But had I somehow survived, I would most assuredly have gone on to be Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. As a child, it was my aspiration to become Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. My mother wanted me to be something more practical, like an accountant, but I had bigger dreams. I definitely had the drive, desire, devilish instincts and conniving nature to become Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe. All I lacked was the horsepower. And by the time I took my first ride in a motorized chair I was 13, and you know how you are at that age. Oh sure, you’d still love to be Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, but not if you have to work for it. You expect the universe to walk up and hand it to you. And anyway, that first motorized wheelchair was as fast and nimble as a tank so it wasn’t conducive to becoming Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe.
Had I achieved my career goal of Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe, life in the universe would be paradise. With Smart Ass Cripple in charge, all our problems would be over. Because first off, there would be no republicans. Republicans? Outlawed, by the first decree of the Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe! That right there would solve 80 percent of our problems. And also, beer would be free! All beer abundant and free by decree! That would solve the other 20 percent.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Henry Kissinger Hates New Zelanders
The wedding was way down south in the town of Litchfield. Diana Ross (Smart Ass Cripple Alias) was excited to travel down there with Rahnee and me as one of our assistants.
But the close friends and family of Diana Ross beseeched her not to go. “They hate black folks down there,” they all said. “Why do you think they call it Lynchfield!”
So Diana Ross told us she was having serious doubts about going. So we had to reassure her that she would not be lynched.
First off, the town is called Litchfield, we said. So the worst that could happen is she might get Litched. Oh sure, hers would probably be the only face at the wedding that wasn’t white. And yes, like everywhere else in the world, there were sure to be some racists in the crowd. It’s near impossible to assemble 100 plus people anywhere without catching in the net a racist or two. But even so, she would be protected by a counterbalancing social force far more powerful than racism: wedding etiquette. Any expert on manners will tell you that a sure-fire way to ruin a bride’s once-in-a-lifetime extra special day and make her pissed off at you for the rest of your life would be to lynch one of her wedding guests.
However we did feel compelled to warn Diana Ross that she might witness a frightening ritual in which white people at a wedding were likely to engage. It’s called the chicken dance. We described in graphic detail how we drink too much and then we flap our arms and waddle around in circles to peppy accordion music. And sometimes, if things really deteriorate into drunken surrealism, we put our left hip in and our left hip out and our left hip in and we shake it all about.
But even that didn’t scare Diana Ross away. She was back in! She was excited to go to Litchfield. She was in her early 30s and a single mother of three but she had never traveled beyond Chicago.
It was a glorious day for a wedding—bright sun and blue sky and twittering birds. And yes, Diana Ross was the only person in the church who wasn’t white. But no matter—all went off without a hitch. There was not so much as a hint of a potential lynching.
After the wedding, outside the church, I saw Diana Ross laughing it up with Uncle Henry Kissinger (Smart Ass Cripple alias again). Uncle Henry Kissinger was a lanky truck driver, 30ish. He spoke with a warm, slow drawl.
Diana Ross and Henry Kissinger were really hitting it off. As I approached I heard him say, “I get along with everybody.”
“Me too!” replied Diana Ross.
“I got nothing against nobody,” Henry Kissinger said. But after a long pause, he added, “Well, except for those people from New Zealand. I don’t like them. “ Those people from New Zealand, they come to the U.S. and they drive trucks, Henry Kissinger said. And because they live in New Zealand, they don’t have homes to go here to so they live in their trucks. Sometimes two or three of them live in a truck so they can drive 24/7, nonstop! Guys like Henry Kissinger can’t keep up.
“They come here and they take all of our jobs!” Henry Kissinger grumbled.
Diana Ross nodded. “Well I think we can all agree that we don’t like them.”
Friday, August 19, 2011
Evil Bastards All!
Holy crap!
Did you hear the earth-shattering news?
A team of geneticists at John Hopkin's University, after decades of research, have pinpointed a single cause for what makes people crippled, no matter what kind of cripple they are. These researchers meticulously studied the DNA of millions of cripples from all over the world and they determined with scientific certainty that the single reason people become crippled is because God is punishing them for something evil they did in their previous life.
Damn!
I mean some people have been preaching that punished by God shit for centuries but we always dismissed them as dumbass superstitions. But now there’s scientific proof that they were right all along! This is some monumental shit these John Hopkin's guys discovered! The Vegas oddsmakers have them as a cinch to win the Nobel Prize.
And now I’ll never look at cripples the same way again. Every time I see one now, I’ll wonder what kind of evil bastard they used to be. The guy I’m really wondering about is that Stephen Hawking. As thoroughly crippled up as he is, in his previous life he must have been like Hitler or something. And consequently he’s condemned to live this life as distinguished Lucasion Professor of Mathematics at the University of Cambridge, best-selling author and recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
And I’m also wondering about this young woman I know who’s not very crippled up at all. She just has a little bit of a limp. Other than that she’s smart and good-looking and she talks clear as a bell and she looks pretty much normal. God didn’t punish her too bad so in her previous life she must have just had a bunch of unpaid parking tickets.
And I’ll never look at myself the same way again either. What kind of evil bastard was I? I know I wasn’t as evil as Hawking because God didn’t punish me quite as bad as he punished him. At least I can talk. But if Hawking was something like Hitler, I must’ve been something nearly as despicable. I bet in my previous life I was a superstar athlete. I was young and strong. I had a million dollars, a zillion women and a solid gold Rolls Royce, which I always parked in those handicapped parking spaces.
But the guys I’m wondering about the most are those who have the most terrifying cripple condition of all. You can’t tell by looking at them. They strut around chin up, pretending like there’s nothing wrong. But sooner or later their cripple condition manifests and they are mortified. Most guys would rather be like Stephen Hawking ten times over than to have what these guys have. Impotence.
God is punishing the hell out of those guys.
Did you hear the earth-shattering news?
A team of geneticists at John Hopkin's University, after decades of research, have pinpointed a single cause for what makes people crippled, no matter what kind of cripple they are. These researchers meticulously studied the DNA of millions of cripples from all over the world and they determined with scientific certainty that the single reason people become crippled is because God is punishing them for something evil they did in their previous life.
Damn!
I mean some people have been preaching that punished by God shit for centuries but we always dismissed them as dumbass superstitions. But now there’s scientific proof that they were right all along! This is some monumental shit these John Hopkin's guys discovered! The Vegas oddsmakers have them as a cinch to win the Nobel Prize.
And now I’ll never look at cripples the same way again. Every time I see one now, I’ll wonder what kind of evil bastard they used to be. The guy I’m really wondering about is that Stephen Hawking. As thoroughly crippled up as he is, in his previous life he must have been like Hitler or something. And consequently he’s condemned to live this life as distinguished Lucasion Professor of Mathematics at the University of Cambridge, best-selling author and recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
And I’m also wondering about this young woman I know who’s not very crippled up at all. She just has a little bit of a limp. Other than that she’s smart and good-looking and she talks clear as a bell and she looks pretty much normal. God didn’t punish her too bad so in her previous life she must have just had a bunch of unpaid parking tickets.
And I’ll never look at myself the same way again either. What kind of evil bastard was I? I know I wasn’t as evil as Hawking because God didn’t punish me quite as bad as he punished him. At least I can talk. But if Hawking was something like Hitler, I must’ve been something nearly as despicable. I bet in my previous life I was a superstar athlete. I was young and strong. I had a million dollars, a zillion women and a solid gold Rolls Royce, which I always parked in those handicapped parking spaces.
But the guys I’m wondering about the most are those who have the most terrifying cripple condition of all. You can’t tell by looking at them. They strut around chin up, pretending like there’s nothing wrong. But sooner or later their cripple condition manifests and they are mortified. Most guys would rather be like Stephen Hawking ten times over than to have what these guys have. Impotence.
God is punishing the hell out of those guys.
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