Wednesday, April 19, 2023

Down Syndrome Reveal Party

 These days you can know what gender your future child will be before it is even born. And so some people throw one of those silly gender reveal parties, where they tell all the invited guests whether the fetus is a boy or a girl. But the information is delivered with great fanfare. Dozens of pink or blue balloons might be released into the air. Or maybe a plane might fly overhead pulling a banner that says IT’S A BOY or IT’S A GIRL. There might even be fireworks involved somehow.

You can even purchase items for gender reveal parties.  For instance, there are gender reveal smoke bombs and confetti cannons.

These days you can also find out a lot of other things about your future child before it is even born besides gender. You can find out whether or not it will be crippled and if so how. You can find out if the kid will be crippled for the same reason I am. And when that happens, people don’t start thinking about having festive events to celebrate their fetus. People instead start thinking about aborting the damn thing.

That’s how a lot of fetuses that will eventually become people with Down Syndrome get aborted. I don’t think there ever has been such a thing as a Down Syndrome reveal party. No, the best a fetus like that can hope for is that the mom will quietly continue with the pregnancy.

Throwing a Down Syndrome reveal party would be considered by polite society to be tastelessly disrespectful. The proper etiquette for an occasion like this would be to have a somber event that’s more like a funeral. Everybody shows up and offers their condolences. No confetti cannons or  fireworks or anything like that. That could be seen as making light of tragedy. If there are any theatrics at all, it might be releasing black balloons into the air.

Giving birth to a regular, standard-issue baby is looked upon as one of those joyous occasions in life that's worthy of high celebration. But giving birth to a crippled baby is something else altogether.

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Tuesday, April 11, 2023

Poppy Day

 

 We don’t seem to have Poppy Day around here anymore.

When I was a kid, it seemed like Poppy Day happened at least once a year, if not several times a year. I knew it was Poppy Day if I was out riding around in a car because whenever we’d get stopped by a red light people would walk out into the intersection with slotted cans in one hand and red flowers in the other. They’d come up to car windows shaking the cans so that the people inside the car could hear the coins in the can clanging around and if someone rolled down the window and dropped a few more coins in the can they’d receive one of the red flowers as a token of appreciation.

My mother always enthusiastically rolled down her window and dropped coins in the cans on Poppy Day. And she’d display her poppy by tying its stem to the rearview mirror. I noticed that the poppy wasn’t even real. It was made of cloth. So I asked my mother why she was so eager to buy and so proud to display a fake flower. She explained that the poppy was a symbol of something of far greater importance. When she purchased a poppy, she was helping the handicapped because the poppies were made by handicapped people.

I also noticed that right around Poppy Day a lot of people had cloth poppies hanging from their rearview mirrors. So, I guess displaying a poppy had the added benefit of showing everyone that you help the handicapped.

I think it’s a good thing that they don’t have Poppy Days anymore. It shows that cripples have bigger and better things going on than making cloth flowers. But sometimes even today when I’m waiting for a red light I get solicited to give money for cripples. But it’s the cripples themselves that approach my car, not their surrogates. These cripples shake canisters full of coins. But the canisters are usually more makeshift, like used cups from fast food restaurants. And if I give them coins, they just say thanks and move on to the next car. They don’t give me a poppy or anything.

Without a poppy to display. how is everyone going to know that I help the handicapped?

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Friday, March 31, 2023

A Certified Role Model

 

People sometimes tell me I’m a good role model for criplets. But I have a hard time seeing myself as a role model because I don’t really know what a role model is. There are no standards or anything.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d like to go around being a role model. If nothing else, it might be a way to make a few bucks.

But what qualifications do I have to call myself a role model? Just because I’m an adult cripple who’s managed to accomplish a few things in life, big deal. Is that all it takes to be an official crippled role model? I sure hope not.

And I ‘ve always been suspicious of cripples who brazenly go around acting like they’re everybody's big-time role model. You know what I ‘m talking about. It’s those motivational speaker types. They make me not want to be a role model for sure. To quote the great 20th Century philosopher Groucho Marx, I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.

I’d feel a lot more confident if there was some kind of state licensing test I had to pass to be allowed to call myself a role model.The first question would be, “What the hell makes you think you’re a role model?” I’d be too intimidated to answer that question so I’d give up taking the test right then and there and I‘d never get certified. But at least I’d know for sure that I’m not a role model.

I’d also feel more confident being a role model if role models were required to have malpractice insurance. One of the things that holds me back from declaring myself a role model is I’m afraid of being sued. What if some criplet decides he wants to be like me and finds out the hard way that was a bad idea? It's bound to happen. And there’s bound to be some ambulance-chasing lawyer out there who will gladly take the case.

I guess that’s why I resist being  a role model so hard. It’s too much responsibility.

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Wednesday, March 22, 2023

Please Don't Jump into a Freezing Lake on My Account

I, Smart Ass Cripple, do hereby solemnly swear that I will never be the type of cripple who makes uncrippled people dive into a freezing cold body of water in the dead of winter just to raise money for them.

It seems like every week in winter I see a local news report about a group of uncrippled people who, presumably, are otherwise sane and rational, going to the beach on a frigid day, stripping down to their bathing suits and jumping in the lake. To get people to do stuff like this you’d better have a damn good reason. And what better reason is there than raising money for cripples?

In Chicago, they jump in the lake in winter to raise money for the Special Olympics. There’s something sadistic and tyrannical about that, making people freeze their asses off for you. It sounds like something a spoiled little 10-year-old king would do to the peasants for laughs.

I know nobody is holding a  gun to anybody’s head and making them jump into a frigid lake. But if those people were raising money for me, I’d be horrified. I’d feel obliged to go down to the beach with a bullhorn and shout, “What the hell are you people doing? Are you nuts?  Go home and get warm!” If I was in the Special Olympics, I'd mess up their whole gig.

No offense, but I would never jump in a freezing lake for you. There would have to be a helluva lot at stake for me to make me do that. Someone would have to be holding my family hostage and threatening to kill them, or something like that.

So if anybody out there ever feels so sorry for or inspired by me that you’re ready to raise money for me by taking a flying leap into a freezing lake, please don’t. You can just write me a check instead.

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Friday, March 10, 2023

More Smart Ass Cripple Tips for Young Criplets

 Like I said last time, I always love giving tips to young criplets about ways I’ve found to navigate through the world as a cripple.

Here are some more: Never wear underwear or pajamas but always wear slip-on shoes.

I learned these valuable lessons because the high school I attended was a state-operated boarding school for cripples, which I affectionately refer to as the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT).

The great existential question every inmate faced was, "Is there life beyond SHIT?” SHIT was a bubble. There were staff to meet our needs. The people who helped us get in and out of bed were the houseparents. There were therapists aplenty.

But what happened if an inmate graduated or reached age 21 and couldn’t live at SHIT anymore? Without the houseparents around, who was going to help us get in and out of bed?

The therapists thought their job was to help me figure out how to do as much of that kind of stuff as I could for myself. They devised elaborate, makeshift technology, like long sticks with hooks and snaps and pulleys on them, to help me do stuff like pull up my socks. It didn’t matter if it took me all day to pull up my socks. The important thing was that I did it myself.

And so I came up with all kinds of shortcuts. I wouldn’t have to worry about putting my pajamas on without any houseparents around if I slept naked. I wouldn’t have to figure out a way to wiggle my underwear on and off if I didn’t wear any. I wouldn’t have to waste any time tying my shoes if I wore slip-ons.

These are the things I did to ensure my survival beyond SHIT. I still don’t wear pajamas or underwear because, well, what’s the point? And not buying those things saves money, too. I sometimes wear shoes that have laces, but regardless of what kind of shoes I wear, I have someone else put them on me. There’s a crew of people that I’ve hired to do all that kind of stuff for me. I call them my pit crew. They’re all paid an hourly wage but it doesn’t cost me anything, except when I pay my taxes. The state government covers it all.

 I hope these tips aren’t as relevant as they once were. Fortunately, there are a whole lot more of these programs around, so today’s cripples don’t have to stress about doing everything yourself or going broke paying someone to help. But there aren’t nearly enough of these programs and a lot of cripples can’t get the help they need. So my tips may prove to be helpful  after all.

Oh crap! I just remembered that a few years back, I was invited to be the commencement speaker at SHIT. I’m one of their prize alumni. (Do you see why I call it SHIT?) I talked all kinds of shit to the graduating criplets, but I didn’t share these tips with them. Sorry about that, criplets. Maybe the SHIT people will invite me to speak again.

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Tuesday, February 28, 2023

A Smart Ass Cripple Tip for Young Criplets

 

I always love giving tips to young criplets about ways I’ve found to navigate through the world as a cripple. I strongly believe that young people represent the future and it’s not  just my obligation but my honor to use the benefit of my experience to help them get ahead.

 So my tip for today is: Save your empty mayonnaise jars so you can piss in them. When you reflect back on it years later, you’ll be glad you did.

One of the first life challenges every wheelchair cripple faces is finding an adequate vessel to piss into. We wheelchair cripples (who have penises) piss from our wheelchairs, sitting down. I pissed into a mayonnaise jar when I  was a kid. But I’m not suggesting that all you criplets reflexively do the same just because I  did and I’m your role model because you admire the shit out of me. Consider the sound reasoning behind it.

The mayonnaise jar must’ve been my mother’s idea. She had good instincts as a mother of crippled kids. She probably calculated that a mayonnaise jar was precisely the right receptacle for her dear son to piss into.  A pickle jar was too bulky. The opening on a pop bottle was too narrow, leaving very little margin for error.

But my mother’s primary motivation was probably her legendary frugality. She wasn’t cheap. She was frugal. A cheap person does everything they can to keep from spending their money. A frugal person tries to get the most out of their money. A good way to accomplish this is to figure out ways to get more than one use out of things. That’s why my mother loved shopping at resale stores.

My mother approached problem-solving from this frugal perspective. So I imagine that one day while contemplating how to reuse an empty mayonnaise jar, a light bulb went off in her head.

I don’t piss into mayonnaise jars anymore, but I do retain my mother’s frugal value system. And I defend my actions by saying that I am being an environmentalist. Like for instance, when I  get carry-out food and it comes in plastic containers, I keep the containers  for a while and use them for storing other leftovers in my fridge,  thus shortening the time  these containers are cluttering up some landfill. I’m waging war against the destructiveness of America’s disposable consumer culture. I’m saving the earth, just like I was doing when I pissed into a mayonnaise jar.

Tuesday, February 21, 2023

Take This Social Security and Medicaid and Shove it

I saw a weird poker game on one of those obscure sports channels buried on cable in the wee hours of the morning. It was called the Social Security and Medicaid Championship Tournament.

The contestants were a blind guy, two guys in wheelchairs and a Down Syndrome woman. The grand prize was that the winner got enough money to be able to tell both Social Security and Medicaid to fuck off.

Because if you’re a cripple who needs to collect Social Security and/or Medicaid to survive, you have to be broke ass and stay broke ass. If you start making much money at all, you get kicked off because in the eyes of the law you don’t need Social Security and Medicaid to pay for all your shit anymore because you have money now so you can pay for it all yourself.

But that’s like being pushed off of a cliff because being crippled is expensive as hell. You  need things uncrippled people don’t have to worry about like wheelchairs or you may need to pay someone to help you take a shower or drag yourself in and out of bed. And you have to figure out a way to pay for all that. So just because you’re making money doesn’t mean that you’re still not broke ass and you don’t need help paying for all your shit anymore. About the only way for a cripple to suddenly leave all the  public support programs behind and still function is if they suddenly become a millionaire.

In this poker game, the pot was a million dollars. These contestants were the final four. They looked at their cards intensely. The blind guy felt the Braille bumps on his cards. He opened the bidding by throwing in five chips. The Down Syndrome woman and one of the wheelchair guys folded.

But the other wheelchair guy matched the bet. So the blind guy went all in. Not only did he push in all his chips, he also reached in his pocket and took out all his food stamps and threw them on the pile.  Then he revealed his hand. He had three kings. The wheelchair guy only had two pair.

The blind guy leapt up from his chair and raised his fists in triumph. He ripped up his food stamps and threw them in the air.

The cheerleaders did somersaults of joy. Confetti rained down. The band played a version of Take this Job and Shove it. Except the lyrics were Take this Social Security and Medicaid and Shove it.

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