Within the wonderfully motley parade of cripples that were my classmates at the Chicago Public elementary school for crippled kids, the one who stands out most in my mind is Condoleeza (Smart Ass Cripple alias).
I think about her often and I wonder if she ever got a nose. She literally didn’t have a nose. Apparently that’s why they sent her to the cripple school because there was really nothing else crippled about her. She talked like someone with a stuffed nose, but besides that she could walk and run and jump double dutch like any other kid.
Condoleeza had a fake nose. She was copper-skinned African American and her fake nose was several shades darker. I don’t know who made her fake nose for her. It looked like it was fashioned out of clay or hard rubber like a hockey puck. It sort of looked like a nose, being a vaguely wedge-shaped mound with two nostrils bored into the bottom. Since it was only attached with glue, often Condoleezza’s nose fell off and bounced to the floor, sometimes out of the blue like right in the middle of lunch. She’d retrieve it and run off to the school nurse to have it glued back on.
I give Condoleeza credit. She didn’t let fear of losing her nose stop her from wrestling around and jumping into the double dutch. But of course when her nose came off during fun and games like that, all we dumbass other kids freaked out and scattered, like when there’s a turd in the swimming pool. So sometimes the school attendants, in their white uniforms, made Condoleeza sit off to the side with the kids who weren’t allowed to play rough at recess, like the bleeders and the brittle bones kids. They played checkers and boring stuff like that.
Condoleezza’s homemade nose was a symbol of the economic inequality in America. She lived in a rundown public housing project high rise, in a land forsaken by rhinoplasty. No doubt if she was born in Beverly Hills, she never would have been banished to the cripple school. There would have been an all points bulletin to be on the lookout for a cadaver with just the right skin tone to serve as her nose transplant donor. At the very least, she would have had an amazingly lifelike prosthetic firmly welded into place.
But not poor Condoleeza.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
The Squeegee Corps
Everybody knows the upcoming election is all about jobs, which really sucks. It ought to be all about free beer. If the candidates were promising free beer, nobody would give a crap about jobs.
But it’s interesting to examine the innovative plans both parties propose for putting cripples to work. The democrats call for creating jobs within the public sector, jobs specially designed to be easy for cripples to do.
Here’s an example: the job title is License Plate Checker. A whole slew of cripples are hired to examine vanity license plates before they’re issued to make sure there’s no profanity in them. This is accomplished by creating a new department within the FBI charged with investigating vanity license plates and rooting out subtly spelled dirty words, double entendre, etc. We must protect the children. This new department would be almost exclusively staffed by cripples, who examine the plates forward and backward, upside down, in rearview mirrors, etc. This work is suited well for cripples not only because it is sedentary but because cripples have very dirty minds. We can match wits with all the smart ass perverts out there trying to beat the system and sneak one past. We can crack their code.
The democrats also want to create a new public service entity like AmeriCorps but it would be exclusively for cripples. It’s called the Squeegee Corps. Teams of cripples armed with squeegees are dispatched to street corners across this great land to squeegee the windshields of those stopped at traffic lights. The pay is minimum wage but the real rewards of public service work are the intangibles.
The republicans, of course, disagree vehemently with this big-government approach to job creation. Their plan emphasizes private initiative and entrepreneurship. With that in mind, their plan retains the squeegee approach except a privately-owned squeegee manufacturer receives a massive tax break and a $5 billion contract to administer the program. This fits in perfectly with the republican vision for the future of America because, as luck would have it, the world’s leading manufacturer of squeegees is Haliburton. They control 93 per cent of the global squeegee market. Each American cripple is issued a squeegee. The cripples also receive an incentive to go out and use the squeegee to make money. All of their Social Security, Medicaid and Medicare is cut off. The squeegee cripples receive no wage. They only work for tips. But as yet another incentive, drivers can write whatever tips they give squeegee cripples off of their income taxes. Just be sure to get a receipt.
No matter what plan prevails, I’ll participate in the federal government’s effort to get cripples into the workforce. I won’t have much fucking choice, since nobody’s proposing free beer. Until the day when beer is free, I have to keep working.
I plan to get a small business loan to develop a voiceover business. This has long been my dream. My voiceovers are highly specialized and address a small but potentially lucrative market niche. I do impressions of famous actors saying no more than a select few words. This is invaluable when dubbing movies to sanitize then for television. So for instance, my best impression is Jack Nicholson saying “fudge.” Splice that in, and Jack’s salty dialogue transforms into “fudge you” or “go fudge yourself.” I also do a great Al Pacino screaming at the top of his lungs “kiss my adenoid!” And when I say “son of a beaver” like Denzel, you’d swear he was in the room.
I hope to use the small business loan to help me perfect my Meryl Streep.
But it’s interesting to examine the innovative plans both parties propose for putting cripples to work. The democrats call for creating jobs within the public sector, jobs specially designed to be easy for cripples to do.
Here’s an example: the job title is License Plate Checker. A whole slew of cripples are hired to examine vanity license plates before they’re issued to make sure there’s no profanity in them. This is accomplished by creating a new department within the FBI charged with investigating vanity license plates and rooting out subtly spelled dirty words, double entendre, etc. We must protect the children. This new department would be almost exclusively staffed by cripples, who examine the plates forward and backward, upside down, in rearview mirrors, etc. This work is suited well for cripples not only because it is sedentary but because cripples have very dirty minds. We can match wits with all the smart ass perverts out there trying to beat the system and sneak one past. We can crack their code.
The democrats also want to create a new public service entity like AmeriCorps but it would be exclusively for cripples. It’s called the Squeegee Corps. Teams of cripples armed with squeegees are dispatched to street corners across this great land to squeegee the windshields of those stopped at traffic lights. The pay is minimum wage but the real rewards of public service work are the intangibles.
The republicans, of course, disagree vehemently with this big-government approach to job creation. Their plan emphasizes private initiative and entrepreneurship. With that in mind, their plan retains the squeegee approach except a privately-owned squeegee manufacturer receives a massive tax break and a $5 billion contract to administer the program. This fits in perfectly with the republican vision for the future of America because, as luck would have it, the world’s leading manufacturer of squeegees is Haliburton. They control 93 per cent of the global squeegee market. Each American cripple is issued a squeegee. The cripples also receive an incentive to go out and use the squeegee to make money. All of their Social Security, Medicaid and Medicare is cut off. The squeegee cripples receive no wage. They only work for tips. But as yet another incentive, drivers can write whatever tips they give squeegee cripples off of their income taxes. Just be sure to get a receipt.
No matter what plan prevails, I’ll participate in the federal government’s effort to get cripples into the workforce. I won’t have much fucking choice, since nobody’s proposing free beer. Until the day when beer is free, I have to keep working.
I plan to get a small business loan to develop a voiceover business. This has long been my dream. My voiceovers are highly specialized and address a small but potentially lucrative market niche. I do impressions of famous actors saying no more than a select few words. This is invaluable when dubbing movies to sanitize then for television. So for instance, my best impression is Jack Nicholson saying “fudge.” Splice that in, and Jack’s salty dialogue transforms into “fudge you” or “go fudge yourself.” I also do a great Al Pacino screaming at the top of his lungs “kiss my adenoid!” And when I say “son of a beaver” like Denzel, you’d swear he was in the room.
I hope to use the small business loan to help me perfect my Meryl Streep.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
The Brad Pitt Brain Tumor
Maureen was complaining about her brain tumor. She had the damn thing removed 21 years ago, but she still has bad spells of vertigo. Sometimes her equilibrium dips and dives like a roller coaster ride.
It’s not supposed to be that way, dammit! Her doctor agrees. There’s no medical explanation for her vertigo, he says. He says somebody ought to make a case study out of her, but nobody’s putting much research money into her kind of brain tumor these days.
And that’s what Maureen complains about. You can’t build a good marketing campaign around a brain tumor like hers. It isn’t sexy enough. Hell, people can’t even pronounce it, let alone organize a bowl-a-thon to cure it. Her brain tumor is a Choroid Plexus Papilloma in the Fourth Ventricle. You don’t need an MBA to know that’s not a very catchy brand name. You can’t even form it into an easy-to-remember acronym, like AIDS. CPPFV? What the hell does that spell?
What her brain tumor needs, Maureen says, is someone like Christopher Reeve. When Christopher Reeve became a quad, oh baby, there was a tsunami of research money for quads. But Maureen’s brain tumor is an unmapped, uncharted, unclaimed publicity wilderness. No celebrity has stuck his or her flag in it, so to speak.
In Maureen’s fantasy, a hot celebrity gets her brain tumor; someone like Brad Pitt. No harm intended. This is a fantasy, so Brad Pitt quickly gets rid of his CPPFV in a holistic, noninvasive fashion. Like maybe he meditates it away or sings it away. And then he gets a brief period of vertigo, just long enough to get the attention of Congress. Because if Congress sees Brad Pitt stumbling around like Maureen stumbles around sometimes, there will be a volcano of research money for CPPFVers.
And then Brad Pitt and Maureen are cured and everybody lives happily ever after. Everybody except Brad Pitt. Because when you’re a celebrity and you get some kind of crippling condition, you may well become synonymous with that crippling condition whether you like it or not. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Christopher Reeve? It ain’t Superman. The crippling condition might even get named after you, like poor Lou Gehrig. Lou Gehrig got screwed all the way around on that proposition. If it happened today, at least he could retain a good copyright lawyer to get him a deal where he gets a nickel or something every time someone says Lou Gehrig’s disease.
CPPFV would become known as the Brad Pitt Brain Tumor, which would suck big time for Brad Pitt. He’d be the Christopher Reeve of brain tumors. Everyone would associate him with brain tumors rather than with his unforgettable movie roles, whatever they are.
That’s why celebrities fear having diseases named after them. It’s a bad career move, unless they’re trying to make a comeback and any publicity will do. The only people who enjoy having diseases named after them are doctors and researchers. For them it’s a big wet dream to have a colon polyp bearing their name, which shows what sickos they are.
Maureen doesn’t put much faith in the possibility of corporate naming rights coming to her rescue either. Wouldn’t it be heavenly if some corporation like Anheuser-Busch ponied up $25 million so CPPFV would be the Budweiser Brain Tumor? That could potentially pack the same marketing wallop as Brad Pitt. But who wants their product to remind people of brain tumors?
So Maureen just hangs on tight, riding her roller coaster.
It’s not supposed to be that way, dammit! Her doctor agrees. There’s no medical explanation for her vertigo, he says. He says somebody ought to make a case study out of her, but nobody’s putting much research money into her kind of brain tumor these days.
And that’s what Maureen complains about. You can’t build a good marketing campaign around a brain tumor like hers. It isn’t sexy enough. Hell, people can’t even pronounce it, let alone organize a bowl-a-thon to cure it. Her brain tumor is a Choroid Plexus Papilloma in the Fourth Ventricle. You don’t need an MBA to know that’s not a very catchy brand name. You can’t even form it into an easy-to-remember acronym, like AIDS. CPPFV? What the hell does that spell?
What her brain tumor needs, Maureen says, is someone like Christopher Reeve. When Christopher Reeve became a quad, oh baby, there was a tsunami of research money for quads. But Maureen’s brain tumor is an unmapped, uncharted, unclaimed publicity wilderness. No celebrity has stuck his or her flag in it, so to speak.
In Maureen’s fantasy, a hot celebrity gets her brain tumor; someone like Brad Pitt. No harm intended. This is a fantasy, so Brad Pitt quickly gets rid of his CPPFV in a holistic, noninvasive fashion. Like maybe he meditates it away or sings it away. And then he gets a brief period of vertigo, just long enough to get the attention of Congress. Because if Congress sees Brad Pitt stumbling around like Maureen stumbles around sometimes, there will be a volcano of research money for CPPFVers.
And then Brad Pitt and Maureen are cured and everybody lives happily ever after. Everybody except Brad Pitt. Because when you’re a celebrity and you get some kind of crippling condition, you may well become synonymous with that crippling condition whether you like it or not. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Christopher Reeve? It ain’t Superman. The crippling condition might even get named after you, like poor Lou Gehrig. Lou Gehrig got screwed all the way around on that proposition. If it happened today, at least he could retain a good copyright lawyer to get him a deal where he gets a nickel or something every time someone says Lou Gehrig’s disease.
CPPFV would become known as the Brad Pitt Brain Tumor, which would suck big time for Brad Pitt. He’d be the Christopher Reeve of brain tumors. Everyone would associate him with brain tumors rather than with his unforgettable movie roles, whatever they are.
That’s why celebrities fear having diseases named after them. It’s a bad career move, unless they’re trying to make a comeback and any publicity will do. The only people who enjoy having diseases named after them are doctors and researchers. For them it’s a big wet dream to have a colon polyp bearing their name, which shows what sickos they are.
Maureen doesn’t put much faith in the possibility of corporate naming rights coming to her rescue either. Wouldn’t it be heavenly if some corporation like Anheuser-Busch ponied up $25 million so CPPFV would be the Budweiser Brain Tumor? That could potentially pack the same marketing wallop as Brad Pitt. But who wants their product to remind people of brain tumors?
So Maureen just hangs on tight, riding her roller coaster.
Friday, March 2, 2012
The Free Parking Martyrs
Sometimes in life, we forget our roots. We take all the wonderful rights and freedoms we enjoy for granted and we forget about the sacrifices of those who made those rights and freedoms possible.
Take me, for example. As a modern cripple, I have enjoyed a whole lot of free parking for many years. If you have cripple license plates on your car, you usually don’t have to pay for parking at meters.
It’s a sweet gig I tell you. But free parking didn’t just falleth from the sky. Many of my crippled ancestors put their asses on the line so that future generations like me could save a shitload of money on parking. And some of them paid the ultimate price.
It was the 1940s, when most cripples were locked away in sanatoriums, out of sight and out of mind. But four cripples who lived in the same institution were fed up and restless and decided to take action. They wrote a manifesto, which said, “We will no longer tolerate being treated as second class citizens. We will no longer resign ourselves to a future without prospects for education, employment or self-determination. We as cripples must throw off the yoke of oppression and drink from the fountain of justice! Therefore, we demand free parking!”
These were cripples who didn’t even have cars but yet they yearned for free parking. That’s how visionary they were! The manifesto spread like wildfire and soon justice-starved cripples from far and wide demanded free parking too. This groundswell resulted in an historic march, where thousands of cripples took to the streets and converged on the state capitol. But they were met by National Guard troops in full riot gear. Tempers flared. One of the agitated cripples hurled an object in the direction of the police and the clash escalated into what has become known as the infamous free parking riots.
The hurled object was later revealed to be a flaming bag of poop. And the fact that it splattered all over a nearby Mercedes, causing the incensed owner to go through a car wash three times, turned public opinion against the cripples. The four leaders of the march insisted that the poop bomb was the work of an infiltrating provocateur, who allegedly fled the scene on foot. But a jury found each of the four leaders guilty of conduct unbecoming of a cripple, which was a capital offense.
At midnight on November 2, 1947, the four cripples were escorted to the gallows before a jeering crowd. Nooses were tightened around their necks. In an act of final defiance, the four cripples chanted FREE PARKING FOREVER, as their wheelchairs were yanked out from under them.
So whenever I whistle merrily past an expired parking meter, I try to remember to pause and pay silent tribute to my dear brethren, the Free Parking Martyrs. I can’t imagine how empty my life would be if it hadn't been for them. Being crippled really sucks sometimes, but at least I get free parking.
Take me, for example. As a modern cripple, I have enjoyed a whole lot of free parking for many years. If you have cripple license plates on your car, you usually don’t have to pay for parking at meters.
It’s a sweet gig I tell you. But free parking didn’t just falleth from the sky. Many of my crippled ancestors put their asses on the line so that future generations like me could save a shitload of money on parking. And some of them paid the ultimate price.
It was the 1940s, when most cripples were locked away in sanatoriums, out of sight and out of mind. But four cripples who lived in the same institution were fed up and restless and decided to take action. They wrote a manifesto, which said, “We will no longer tolerate being treated as second class citizens. We will no longer resign ourselves to a future without prospects for education, employment or self-determination. We as cripples must throw off the yoke of oppression and drink from the fountain of justice! Therefore, we demand free parking!”
These were cripples who didn’t even have cars but yet they yearned for free parking. That’s how visionary they were! The manifesto spread like wildfire and soon justice-starved cripples from far and wide demanded free parking too. This groundswell resulted in an historic march, where thousands of cripples took to the streets and converged on the state capitol. But they were met by National Guard troops in full riot gear. Tempers flared. One of the agitated cripples hurled an object in the direction of the police and the clash escalated into what has become known as the infamous free parking riots.
The hurled object was later revealed to be a flaming bag of poop. And the fact that it splattered all over a nearby Mercedes, causing the incensed owner to go through a car wash three times, turned public opinion against the cripples. The four leaders of the march insisted that the poop bomb was the work of an infiltrating provocateur, who allegedly fled the scene on foot. But a jury found each of the four leaders guilty of conduct unbecoming of a cripple, which was a capital offense.
At midnight on November 2, 1947, the four cripples were escorted to the gallows before a jeering crowd. Nooses were tightened around their necks. In an act of final defiance, the four cripples chanted FREE PARKING FOREVER, as their wheelchairs were yanked out from under them.
So whenever I whistle merrily past an expired parking meter, I try to remember to pause and pay silent tribute to my dear brethren, the Free Parking Martyrs. I can’t imagine how empty my life would be if it hadn't been for them. Being crippled really sucks sometimes, but at least I get free parking.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Begging on Easy Street
There’s this guy in a ragged wheelchair who sits on a street corner about a block away, shaking a Starbucks cup full of coins. His left leg and right arm are missing, which makes him a curious sight indeed. I’ve know many double amputees, but they’ve always been more symmetrical.
He’s out there every day rain or shine, in the brutal heat and blustery wind. Whenever I see him, it hardens my determination to find a way to liberate him and all the other crippled beggars from the indignity of begging on the harsh city streets. This is the 21st Century, for God’s sake. There are much more sophisticated, efficient, high-tech ways for cripples to beg. Cripples should be begging on the internet, from the comfort and safety of their own homes.
Internet begging is pretty much what we do here at Smart Ass Cripple. We sit here on our virtual street corner, telling jokes to passersby. Sometimes they toss coins into that virtual Starbucks cup known as PayPal.
But I want to set up a website, an online community, a one-stop shop for people to give to crippled beggars. It’ll work sort of like a dating site. Crippled beggars in search of benefactors will post a picture and profile: “Hello. My name is Marvin. I’m a Sagittarius and I have leprosy.” (Disclaimer: Benefactor beware. Crippling conditions have not been authenticated.)
Benefactors can choose a beggar from this dazzling gallery. Or they can search for their ideal beggar by entering the essential characteristics of the type of beggar with whom they would be most compatible: age range, crippling condition, religion, level of education, acceptable number of missing teeth. And the computer will pick the perfect match. There can also be a NAME YOUR PRICE feature where the benefactor offers up a bid, say like 50 cents, and it goes to whichever crippled beggar snatches it first. Or they can adopt-a-beggar, where they set up an automatic transfer of funds to go to the Starbucks cup of same beggar every month.
One hundred per cent of all funds donated go directly to the crippled beggars, minus my modest processing fee.
Internet begging will dramatically improve the quality of life for crippled beggars. They’ll just roll out of bed and check their PayPal. They won’t have to deal with the dangers of street begging, like extreme weather and mafia shakedowns. And best of all, the police won’t chase them off the street when the Olympics come to town.
I’ll call it crippledbeggars.com. I could make it crippledbeggars.org but screw that. I think I can make a lot of money off of this thing.
He’s out there every day rain or shine, in the brutal heat and blustery wind. Whenever I see him, it hardens my determination to find a way to liberate him and all the other crippled beggars from the indignity of begging on the harsh city streets. This is the 21st Century, for God’s sake. There are much more sophisticated, efficient, high-tech ways for cripples to beg. Cripples should be begging on the internet, from the comfort and safety of their own homes.
Internet begging is pretty much what we do here at Smart Ass Cripple. We sit here on our virtual street corner, telling jokes to passersby. Sometimes they toss coins into that virtual Starbucks cup known as PayPal.
But I want to set up a website, an online community, a one-stop shop for people to give to crippled beggars. It’ll work sort of like a dating site. Crippled beggars in search of benefactors will post a picture and profile: “Hello. My name is Marvin. I’m a Sagittarius and I have leprosy.” (Disclaimer: Benefactor beware. Crippling conditions have not been authenticated.)
Benefactors can choose a beggar from this dazzling gallery. Or they can search for their ideal beggar by entering the essential characteristics of the type of beggar with whom they would be most compatible: age range, crippling condition, religion, level of education, acceptable number of missing teeth. And the computer will pick the perfect match. There can also be a NAME YOUR PRICE feature where the benefactor offers up a bid, say like 50 cents, and it goes to whichever crippled beggar snatches it first. Or they can adopt-a-beggar, where they set up an automatic transfer of funds to go to the Starbucks cup of same beggar every month.
One hundred per cent of all funds donated go directly to the crippled beggars, minus my modest processing fee.
Internet begging will dramatically improve the quality of life for crippled beggars. They’ll just roll out of bed and check their PayPal. They won’t have to deal with the dangers of street begging, like extreme weather and mafia shakedowns. And best of all, the police won’t chase them off the street when the Olympics come to town.
I’ll call it crippledbeggars.com. I could make it crippledbeggars.org but screw that. I think I can make a lot of money off of this thing.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Area of Rescue Assistance
It reminds me of the time I went to the ballet and caused a scene. This was way back before there were wheelchair sections in theaters. The usher escorted me to my seat and said I’d have to transfer out of my wheelchair into the theater seat so he could take my wheelchair away and store it in a distant closet for “safety reasons.” A wheelchair in the aisle was a fire hazard, he said, because it interferes with people escaping a fire. I asked how I was supposed to escape a fire without my wheelchair. He said don’t worry, if there’s a fire my wheelchair will be brought right back to me, as soon as everybody else gets out. With a crazy emergency plan like that, it seemed to me like this guy was suffering from some form of smoke inhalation. So I said there was no way I’d give up my chair. He said I must. I said no way. He said I must. And back and forth it went until the ballet patrons looked at us like we were causing a scene. It’s not hard to cause a scene among ballet fans.
The usher placed my party and me in a secluded recess of the ballet house, where he felt confident I could stay in my chair without selfishly impeding those legitimately trying to escape burning to death. But that’s the way it still is on the airlines. Cripples have to sit in regular airline seats and they stow our wheelchairs with the damn baggage. And the flight attendants reassure us that if all hell breaks loose, they’ll come drag us to safety, as soon as everyone else gets out.
It’s an age old question that still baffles the sharpest minds of today: When everything bursts into flames, what do you do with the cripples? Because the first thing that happens when there’s a fire is the elevators shut down, which isn’t the most cripple-friendly move.
But what else can you do? The best idea anyone’s been able to come up with is putting up signs that say AREA OF RESCUE ASSISTANCE. This instructs cripples where to find “safe harbor” where we can calmly wait to be saved. Safe harbor? In a burning building? If it’s so damn safe why doesn’t everybody wait there, instead of stampeding to get the hell out?
The only way I’ll ever feel completely safe is if I have a dedicated security goon with me 24/7, ready to scoop me up and carry me out of harm’s way in case of fire. I know this will never happen. I can’t afford to hire security goons. But why not a gorilla? Fuck service monkeys. I need a service gorilla. If they can train service monkeys to pick pencils up off the floor and shit, why can’t they train a gorilla to carry me? Gorillas are smart as hell. They’re almost people. And because they’re not quite people, they don’t complain about working all day every day.
My gorilla will wear a windbreaker that says SECURITY across the back. I may never need my gorilla’s help, God willing. But just knowing he’s right by my side will make it much easier for me to enjoy myself at the ballet. We’ll relax in our seats on the plane, my gorilla and I, drinking Bloody Marys. But at the first sign of pandemonium he flings me over his shoulder like a potato sack and delivers me to true safe harbor, swatting down and trampling any poor sap who gets in our way.
As a cripple, I deserve this accommodation. I have a right to be safe. I’m going to write my Congressman right now. There ought to be federal funding for this.
The usher placed my party and me in a secluded recess of the ballet house, where he felt confident I could stay in my chair without selfishly impeding those legitimately trying to escape burning to death. But that’s the way it still is on the airlines. Cripples have to sit in regular airline seats and they stow our wheelchairs with the damn baggage. And the flight attendants reassure us that if all hell breaks loose, they’ll come drag us to safety, as soon as everyone else gets out.
It’s an age old question that still baffles the sharpest minds of today: When everything bursts into flames, what do you do with the cripples? Because the first thing that happens when there’s a fire is the elevators shut down, which isn’t the most cripple-friendly move.
But what else can you do? The best idea anyone’s been able to come up with is putting up signs that say AREA OF RESCUE ASSISTANCE. This instructs cripples where to find “safe harbor” where we can calmly wait to be saved. Safe harbor? In a burning building? If it’s so damn safe why doesn’t everybody wait there, instead of stampeding to get the hell out?
The only way I’ll ever feel completely safe is if I have a dedicated security goon with me 24/7, ready to scoop me up and carry me out of harm’s way in case of fire. I know this will never happen. I can’t afford to hire security goons. But why not a gorilla? Fuck service monkeys. I need a service gorilla. If they can train service monkeys to pick pencils up off the floor and shit, why can’t they train a gorilla to carry me? Gorillas are smart as hell. They’re almost people. And because they’re not quite people, they don’t complain about working all day every day.
My gorilla will wear a windbreaker that says SECURITY across the back. I may never need my gorilla’s help, God willing. But just knowing he’s right by my side will make it much easier for me to enjoy myself at the ballet. We’ll relax in our seats on the plane, my gorilla and I, drinking Bloody Marys. But at the first sign of pandemonium he flings me over his shoulder like a potato sack and delivers me to true safe harbor, swatting down and trampling any poor sap who gets in our way.
As a cripple, I deserve this accommodation. I have a right to be safe. I’m going to write my Congressman right now. There ought to be federal funding for this.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Lorenzo Milam review of Smart Ass Cripple's Little Red Book
I'm delighted to post this review of Smart Ass Cripple's Little Red Book by the great Lorenzo Milam, author of Crip Zen.
Please check it out:
http://www.ralphmag.org/GV/smart-ass-cripple.html
Smart Ass Cripple's Little Red Book is available at
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/smart-ass-cripples-little-red-book/18640517
Or just click the lulu button to the left.
Please check it out:
http://www.ralphmag.org/GV/smart-ass-cripple.html
Smart Ass Cripple's Little Red Book is available at
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/smart-ass-cripples-little-red-book/18640517
Or just click the lulu button to the left.
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