Those Miscellaneous Types

I must say it causes me great anxiety whenever I have to replace a member of my pit crew. Because first off, I never know how to word the want ad. I’m always tempted to go straight to the point. No pussyfooting: “Crippled man needs someone to wipe his ass.” That’s like posting a manifesto. It’s a clear and concise statement of what it’s all about. It weeds out the weak and squeamish.  Only those with a certain fortitude will answer the call.

And then the ad should say,  “No experience necessary.” Because  when it comes to ass wiping, sadly, most people are virgins. And so the ritual you go through with  someone who's getting ready to wipe your ass for the first time is pretty much the same ritual you go through with someone who’s getting ready to have sex with you for the first time. You start off with an icebreaker. You say something like, “So have you ever done anything like this before?” And they say something like, “Only to myself.” And so you reassure them that you will be patient and gentle and nurturing. And then  they take a deep breath and do it and soon it’s over and they realize it wasn’t that bad at all. And they never forget that you were their first

And I never know under which employment category to place the ad. I hate the “c” word: caregiver. I hate it because what then does that make me? The caretaker? Isn't a caretaker someone who takes care of someone? But isn’t that what a caregiver is? It’s all so confusing. And the “c” word sound so custodial. And it’s so unreciprocal.  On one side it’s all give give give give give. And on the other side it’s all take take take take take. But I like to think my pit crew people get something out of their time spent with me besides their paltry paychecks, even if it’s just a good joke or two.

And so I end up placing my ad under the category of miscellaneous. Those are the people I’m looking for to join my pit crew—those miscellaneous types.

The job doesn’t pay much. No benefits. No time and a half. No paid vacation.  No 401(k). But the best thing about working in my pit crew is that it’s about as far away as one can possibly get from working for some soul-crushing corporation.

That's another thing I should put in my ad: “You may have to wipe my ass, but you’ll never have to kiss it.”

Amazing and Astounding

I, Smart Ass Cripple, have fooled the doctors. Just about any cripple who ever lived can make the same claim. Back when I was just a wee Smart Ass Criplet, the doctors said I wouldn’t live to be 10 years old. When I got to be 10, it was adjusted up to 15. When I got to be 15, it was adjusted up to 20. When I got to be 20, those doctors were dead.

And here I am. But I must admit that I, Smart Ass Cripple, have even fooled myself. I have seen some truly amazing and astounding things that even I, in my wildest imagination, would have ever dreamed I would live to see.

In fact, just the other day I saw something that left me breathless with astonishment. I saw a vendor selling cans of beer for $9 each. It was one of those outdoor concert venues where you’re captive. They practically give you a full cavity body search as you enter, just to make sure you’re not smuggling in anything "dangerous," like a six pack of beer. They confiscate everything but your wallet. And then they say, “Enjoy the show!” So the vendors have a monopoly.

Now when I was a criplet the doctors didn’t scare me. I figured I live to be 90. But I would have laughed if some fortune teller told me I would see with my own eyes a can of beer selling for $9. And here’s something even more unbelievable: I bought one! Actually, I guess that’s not so unbelievable.

I wish I was visionary because I probably could have made some nice money off of all this underestimation. I should have bet the doom-and-gloom doctors that I would last long enough to see the day when the president of the United States would address the nation to admit he got a blow job from an intern. Impossible!  I probably could have gotten 5,000 to 1 odds on that. But I’m far past that milestone and bearing witness to yet more mind-boggling phenomena, like professional hot dog eating competitions. Who could have predicted that this frail criplet would grow up and live in an era where humans make big sport out of cramming 50 hot dogs down their throats in 10 minutes? And the heroic winners of these competitions strut proud and flash their medals as if they were Olympians. And they ride in limos stocked with champagne and babes. It reminds me how utterly stupefying life can be.

If you can judge a man by the stunningly overpriced beer, commander-in-chief hummers and disgusting celebration of gluttony he has seen, then I have lived a long and rich life. So suck on that, doctors.

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Smart Ass Cripple as a Role Model

I know I’m a role model, whether I like it or not. So I have to constantly be conscious of how I behave because some people who don’t know much about cripples will base their opinion of all other cripples on their opinion of me. I may not agree with this reality but I accept it and I always try to conduct myself with that in mind.

For example, I know how important employment is to my people so I have tried hard when in the workplace to debunk the misconceptions employers have about cripples. I’ve done this by quitting many jobs. Because those who try to convince employers to hire cripples always cite research that shows what loyal employees cripples are. We come in early, we stay late, we never call in sick, we never take vacations, we never ask for a raise. Isn’t that pathetic? It makes us sound so desperate. It makes it sound like if we ever get a job, any job, we’ll never ever let go no matter what. So whenever I get a job, I immediately feel this strong obligation to quit so the employer won’t get the wrong idea about cripples. Because if I work twice as hard as everybody else for the same pay and never complain and never call in pretending to be sick because I feel like staying home and watching the ballgame, then my boss will expect every other cripple to do the same.

I also felt great pressure to be a role model when I lived in government-subsidized public housing for cripples. So I threw parties featuring adult piñatas. Adult piñatas are full of adult stuff like condoms and joints and those little airline bottles of booze and cigarettes and furry handcuffs. I did this because cripples living in government-subsidized public housing aren’t supposed to throw parties featuring adult piñatas. They can maybe throw Tupperware parties, but that’s about it. Cripples are supposed to be as desperate to land an apartment in government-subsidized public housing as we are to land a job. When we get it, we’re not supposed to do anything that might remotely fuck it up. Throwing parties featuring adult piñatas probably could have gotten me kicked out of government-subsidized public housing for cripples. I’m sure there was something in my lease to that effect.

In my lifetime I’ve consumed shitloads of beer because I feel I must. Some people have this idea that cripples are the only adult humans ever with no desire to be intoxicated. Abstinence. So it’s my duty as a role model to drink beer by the metric shitload. And if I'm ever hauled off to a nursing home, that sense of duty will intensify exponentially. Because cripples in nursing homes are absolutely forbidden to drink beer. So, as a role model, drinking beer will be the first thing I have to do.

But I feel I have let my fellow cripples down as sexual role model. Sexuality is the area where the most devastating myths about cripples endure. Some people have this idea that cripples are the only adult humans ever with no desire to get laid. Abstinence. I guess you could say I’ve gotten around. I’ve been married twice. But in order to counteract the cripple asexuality myth to the fullest of my potential as a role model, I should be a raging omnisexual hedonist, fucking everything that isn’t nailed down. I have failed in this regard, though it wasn’t from a lack of effort or desire. I just couldn’t keep up. I leave it to future generations of cripple role models to pick up where I have fallen short.

An Essay Comparing and Contrasting Cripples and Spiders

People are afraid of spiders for the same reason they’re afraid of cripples. They think they’re ugly.

It’s silly to be scared of spiders. Most spiders pose no physical threat. A very tiny percentage of the vast population of spiders is venomous and lethal.

The same is true of cripples.

Contact with a spider will not turn you into a spider, not even if it bites you. Spider Man is fiction.

 The same is true of cripples.

When suddenly confronted by ugly spiders, humans have historically reacted by a) running the other way b) trying to kill the ugly spiders (which is what my dog does) c) studying the spiders and writing research papers about their behavior and mating habits. Coincidentally, humans have historically reacted in the exact same manner when suddenly confronted by an ugly cripple. However, in addition, human have also tried to round up all the ugly cripples and lock them away out of sight and out of mind. Humans have never done this to spiders.

Humans fail to realize that all the ugly spider eradication strategies do not work. Humans can win the battle against ugliness, but they can’t win the war. You can stomp an ugly spider to a pulp, but soon there will be more.

The same is true of cripples.

Humans who are afraid of spiders are incapable of understanding the perspective of the spider. Imagine how scared the spider is of you. You’re 900 feet tall! Imagine how terrifyingly ugly you look to the spider.

Cripples feel the same way.

There is, however, a fundamental difference between cripples and spiders. Spiders lack self-awareness whereas cripples, or at least most of them, do not. Consequently, spiders have no idea how ugly humans think they are. Thus, the spider has no concept of the power of its ugliness.  But at some point every cripple becomes aware of how ugly some people think they are. This gives the cripple the distinct edge over the spider because when this moment of chilling awareness occurs, the shrewd cripple can see how to use his/her ugliness to their advantage. Many cripples waste this opportunity.  Some go into self-exile so as to spare themselves and others the pain of future encounters. Some try hard to become more aesthetically pleasing. (Would spiders do this, even if they could? Would spiders put on wigs and makeup and jewelry and prosthetics just to put humans more at ease?  I suppose they might, if they thought it might save their save their lives.)

But some cripples stand their ground. And they remain as unflinchingly ugly as anybody wants them to be. And they laugh at the absurdity of it all. And they plant their flag. And they stake their claim to wherever and whatever they are. And the shrewdest cripples use their ugliness to extract political concessions. They show up at the country club. And they won’t go away until their demands are met. They know their ugliness is what gives them the power to make demands.

These are the cripples most fit to survive and thrive and to propagate the species.

Viva Cheryl Marie Wade

Cheryl Marie Wade died yesterday. She was a radical artist and a big influence on me. Please take a little time and check out her great work.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j75aRfLsH2Y

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTO2vn0dkaU

Eddie the Centaur

On a crowded city sidewalk, I heard someone call my name. I turned and there was a centaur, waving and smiling at me.

Oh my God, I told myself. That must be Eddie the Centaur! And look at him! He’s all grown up. 

“How the hell are ya?” the centaur said. Eddie was one of my fellow inmates at the segregated school for crippled children. Back then he was just a boy/colt. But I figured this had to be him because, well, he's the only centaur I ever met. In those days, any kid who was born a centaur was sure to be banished to the cripple school. That’s where they sent all the freaks.

Eddie gave me a great big hug. I felt deeply embarrassed, not because I was being hugged in public by a centaur but because I remembered how shabbily I treated him. We all shunned Eddie at the cripple school, except to play jokes on him. Like onetime, one of the bully crippled kids pulled a secret switch-a-roo when the lunch trays came up on the cart. Everybody else got baked chicken but when Eddie lifted the lid off his plate all he had was a pile of hay. I laughed real hard like everybody else because I wanted to be cool, even though I knew it was mean.

And the adolescent Eddie of the cripple school days was hardly the huggy type. In fact, he was cocky and arrogant. You’d think that somebody born a centaur would at least be humble about it, but not Eddie. He swore he was going to become a pro football superstar. “And when I give my Hall of Fame speech,” he’d say, “I’m gonna personally name every last one of you and tell you all to kiss my ass!”

Indeed, the only time anybody wanted to be around Eddie was when it was time to play cripple Whiffle football. He was the first one chosen when we chose up sides because with Eddie on your team you couldn’t lose. Just hand Eddie the football and it was a guaranteed touchdown because, being a centaur, he galloped to the end zone and flattened any tackler in his path. I guess Eddie never fulfilled his football dream. I don’t follow football  much but if a centaur was elected to the Hall of Fame I imagine I’d have heard about it. Poor Eddie was probably never given a chance to play football beyond cripple school because people are ignorant and he’s a centaur.

“You’re looking great, Eddie,” I said. “Do you work out?” And then I noticed standing next to him was a gorgeous woman. Eddie said, “This is Deirdre, my wife.” Eddie beamed and put his arm around her. She was supermodel gorgeous. I always felt sorry for Eddie because I figured the only girl that ever would be interested in him would be a female centaur. But there was nothing about Deirdre that was even remotely horse-like.

Another reason I felt sorry for Eddie back in cripple school was because he had a rough childhood. Once, when he was in a melancholy mood, he confided in me that his mother went to her grave blaming herself that he was born a centaur. She wondered if it was due to her reckless behavior in college, like the time she got super wasted and, on a dare, she ate horse meat. Of course researchers have discovered that Eddie’s condition is caused by an extremely rare genetic quirk that turns human fetuses into centaurs. But this knowledge came too late to be of comfort to Eddie’s mom.

I said to Deidre, “Your husband was the greatest cripple school Whiffle football player ever.”

Eddie dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Aw screw football. I work for Disney now. I pull down seven figures. Ever heard of Outer Space Giraffe?”

“Oh course I have,” I said. “It’s the biggest blockbuster Disney movie hit of all time.”

“Well I’m the voice of the giraffe,” Eddie said. “The producers heard my voiceover demo CD and signed me on the spot. And my agent didn’t tell them I was a centaur until it was too late!” Eddie held up his hand for a high five! I slapped it hard.

“That’s how I met Deidre,” Eddie said. “She’s the voice of Queen Bee.”

I felt so proud of Eddie. I was overcome with a great swell of justice.  But I couldn’t help but notice all the passersby gawking intensely at Eddie. It made me angry. It was all I could do to keep from shouting,” What the hell’s the matter with you people? Haven’t you ever seen a man who pulls down seven figures doing the voice of Outer Space Giraffe, is married to a super model and just happens to be a centaur?”

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Feigning Incontinence in the Name of Love

If I’m ever crippled up to the point where I’m homebound, that will be one miserable situation. I’ll be a sad and lonely old man in a musty, cramped apartment. And piled high all around me, like haystacks in a barn, will be hundreds of unopened packages of incontinence pads.

I’ll look like a fucking hoarder of incontinence pads. Because if I’m homebound, I’ll spend all day watching old black-and-white comedies on television. Because what the hell else is there to do when you’re homebound? And when you spend all day watching old black-and-white comedies on television, soon you’ll see commercials for incontinence pads.

And the star of the commercials for incontinence pads is my “personal incontinence consultant.” There she is. Isn’t she lovely? Look at her warm, welcoming smile. Look at her telephone headset. She’s standing by, waiting for ME to call. And it’s toll free!

I know I can trust her with my secrets. I can see it in her eyes. She’s a trained personal incontinence consultant. (Is that what it says on her business cards?)  I’ll be quite nervous when I call because this is my first time. But she understands . She’ll be gentle.

I’ll feel an irresistible infatuation. So I’ll call. She’ll break the ice with small talk. And then, when the mood is just right, she’ll ask if I’m incontinent. I’ll say yes, even though I’m not. But I’ll say I’m incontinent just to impress her. I know that’s the kind of man she’s looking for. I’ll say I’m incontinent just to keep her on the phone.  She’ll ask me if I want her to tell me all about her full line of incontinence pads and I’ll say yes yes oh please yes. And when she asks if I have any questions I’ll ask her a whole bunch of stuff about absorption or whatever. I’ll do anything just to be having a conversation with a woman. I’ll do anything to bring something into my day other than old black-and-white fucking comedies.

And then my personal incontinence consultant will ask for my Medicaid number and I’ll surrender it gladly. And I’ll order a ton of incontinence pads because I love her and I want her to know it. When I fall I fall hard.

And I’ll call back the next day and the next day and the next day and the next just to hear her sweet voice. And I’ll order more and more incontinence pads. All this wouldn’t be so bad if I was incontinent because I’d use the stuff up. But I’m not so it’ll all just pile up because what the hell else can you use incontinence pads for besides their intended purpose? Placemats? I suppose I could stitch a bunch of them together and make a tablecloth.

My friends will hold an intervention. They’ll form a circle around me, sitting on unopened packages of incontinence pads.

But it won’t work. I’ll get in deeper and deeper until my story ends tragically in one of two ways.  I’ll wind up either:

1) In jail, after someone at the Medicaid office notices I’m ordering shitloads of incontinence pads and launches an investigation, or...

2) Dead. I’ll be buried under an avalanche of unopened packages of incontinence pads. 


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