The problem with this country is that nobody takes personal responsibility for anything anymore. Everybody wants to blame their problems on “society.” People who take personal responsibility for solving their own problems aren’t rewarded for taking initiative. As a matter of fact, they’re punished.
I know because it happened to me. I tried to take personal responsibility for improving my own life and I was shit on for doing it. One of the things that has always bugged the hell out of me is that I can’t get into my local butcher shop. There’s a big old step on the front door. So I am reduced to window shopping, staring longingly at the sausage chains and carcasses on display within. The owner is an Italian guy named Luigi. He’s round and wears a blood-spattered white apron. I called his shop and tried to convince him to build a ramp. I said, “You are required by law to provide reasonable accommodation so customers like me can access your store. But more importantly, providing access is the right thing to do. And it’s good for business! You’ll mine a rich, untapped vein of new customers!” But Luigi just said, “It’s a notta my problem.” And he hung up.
For months I sat home and seethed over Luigi’s callous indifference. When I sit home and seethe, I watch a lot of TV. And when I watch a lot of TV I see a lot of those scolding, personal responsibility pundits who tell us to stop acting like whiny little victims. This is America! You’ve got to seize the bull by the bootstraps!
I was finally convinced! Luigi was right! If I can’t get into his store, it’s not his problem. It’s up to ME to deal with my situation without bothering him about it.
So I took personal responsibility. I happen to have a couple buddies who are really into amateur carpentry. So we gathered up some wood and hammers and nails and went to the butcher shop to build a ramp on the entrance. Well we barely got the first plank in place before Luigi appeared.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snarled.
“Don’t worry, Luigi,” I said. “I’m taking personal responsibility for getting into your store. You don’t have to do anything. I realize this is my problem, not yours.”
“Get away from my store or I kill you!” Luigi raised a cleaver and my amateur carpenter buddies scattered like cockroaches. Some friends they are!
So much for the butcher shop. But I didn’t give up. Another thing that always bugged the hell out of me is this big curb on the corner down the block. The curbs all around it are ramped but not that one. I’ve complained to city hall a million and one times. So I decided to take personal responsibility.
I happen to have another buddy who owns a jackhammer. I didn’t think it was legal for a private citizen to own a jackhammer but apparently it’s protected by the 2nd Amendment, according to my buddy who owns a jackhammer. So one fine summer afternoon we went to that corner and commenced to making our own curb ramp. My buddy was happily jackhammering away at the curb for only about two minutes when a police wagon to showed up. The cops cuffed my buddy, threw him in the wagon and confiscated his jackhammer. “Hey,” I said, “you’re violating his 2nd Amendment rights!” But did the cops care about that? No!
So I’m sitting home seething again. Whatever happened to the good old days when taking personal responsibility solved every problem?
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Purchasing Smart Ass Cripple books at lulu.com, subscribing on Amazon Kindle and filling the tip jar keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Friday, August 5, 2016
Rats in my Engine
The guy wore a Walgreens shirt so I figured it was okay to ask him.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you sell nylon stockings?”
“You mean like for ladies?” he said.
I said yes. I fought back the strong urge to explain to him that although I needed ladies’ nylons, I needed them for a very manly reason.
He led me to the back of the store where assorted packages of nylons hung on hooks. “What size?” he said.
I hadn’t anticipated that question. So I said I’ll take the smallest. And all along the Walgreens guy maintained his professional poker face as he took the package of nylons down off the hook and carried it to checkout for me. But I just knew that inside he was dying to know what this hairy old cripple was going to do with this pair of ladies’ nylons. I figured that he ruled out that I was a) buying them for that special woman in my life or b) going to rob a back. People don't give a hairy old cripple credit for being able to pull off feats like robbing a bank or snagging a woman. And he also probably ruled out that I planned to wear them myself. Hairy old cripples don’t do that kind of kinky stuff either. Or maybe I was flattering myself. Maybe he had bigger things on his mind, like how the hell he was going to pay his rent with the money he makes working at Walgreens.
I paid for the nylons and left. And never once did I publicly defend my purchase to him or the checkout guy or any onlookers in line. I could have explained it all away by simply telling the truth and announcing that I have rats in my engine. The previous day I took my cripple van in for an oil change. I’m sitting in the waiting room and it was like one of those moments when the glum surgeon enters to break the news that your loved one’s routine hangnail removal operation has gone terribly wrong. The oil change guy said the engine of my cripple van is full of rat droppings, which meant rats were regularly crawling up into the engine of my cripple van while it’s parked and having a fucking rat picnic! And I’d better do something about it pronto, he said, or they’ll chew through the engine wires and then I’ll really be screwed! I was stunned and incensed. Why those sniveling little nihilistic rodent bastards! Don’t they know how much a cripple van costs? Die vermin die!
The oil change guy said to buy mothballs and nylons. Put the mothballs inside the stockings and hang them in the engine. The smell will scare away rats.
But I didn’t explain this to anyone at Walgreens. I just left and let everyone keep on thinking whatever they were thinking about me, if they were thinking anything about me at all. And that was a breakthrough. Cripples sacrifice a lot of privacy. It’s part of the gig. If I wasn’t crippled, I could have made that purchase completely anonymously—use the self-checkout machine, pay with cash so the NSA won’t even know.
But when you’re a cripple who needs help with just about everything, lots of people get their nose in your business. Some people learn your eating, sleeping, spending and shitting habits. And there’s this tendency on the part of the cripple to want apologize or to convey a rationale that justifies your needs. The pressure is especially intense for cripples who believe they are spokescripples for all other cripples.
But that gets exhausting. At some point you just say fuck it. In the immortal words of Popeye, I am what I am. Or was that Descartes? Whatever. No need to explain.
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Purchasing Smart Ass Cripple books at lulu.com, subscribing on Amazon Kindle and filling the tip jar keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you sell nylon stockings?”
“You mean like for ladies?” he said.
I said yes. I fought back the strong urge to explain to him that although I needed ladies’ nylons, I needed them for a very manly reason.
He led me to the back of the store where assorted packages of nylons hung on hooks. “What size?” he said.
I hadn’t anticipated that question. So I said I’ll take the smallest. And all along the Walgreens guy maintained his professional poker face as he took the package of nylons down off the hook and carried it to checkout for me. But I just knew that inside he was dying to know what this hairy old cripple was going to do with this pair of ladies’ nylons. I figured that he ruled out that I was a) buying them for that special woman in my life or b) going to rob a back. People don't give a hairy old cripple credit for being able to pull off feats like robbing a bank or snagging a woman. And he also probably ruled out that I planned to wear them myself. Hairy old cripples don’t do that kind of kinky stuff either. Or maybe I was flattering myself. Maybe he had bigger things on his mind, like how the hell he was going to pay his rent with the money he makes working at Walgreens.
I paid for the nylons and left. And never once did I publicly defend my purchase to him or the checkout guy or any onlookers in line. I could have explained it all away by simply telling the truth and announcing that I have rats in my engine. The previous day I took my cripple van in for an oil change. I’m sitting in the waiting room and it was like one of those moments when the glum surgeon enters to break the news that your loved one’s routine hangnail removal operation has gone terribly wrong. The oil change guy said the engine of my cripple van is full of rat droppings, which meant rats were regularly crawling up into the engine of my cripple van while it’s parked and having a fucking rat picnic! And I’d better do something about it pronto, he said, or they’ll chew through the engine wires and then I’ll really be screwed! I was stunned and incensed. Why those sniveling little nihilistic rodent bastards! Don’t they know how much a cripple van costs? Die vermin die!
The oil change guy said to buy mothballs and nylons. Put the mothballs inside the stockings and hang them in the engine. The smell will scare away rats.
But I didn’t explain this to anyone at Walgreens. I just left and let everyone keep on thinking whatever they were thinking about me, if they were thinking anything about me at all. And that was a breakthrough. Cripples sacrifice a lot of privacy. It’s part of the gig. If I wasn’t crippled, I could have made that purchase completely anonymously—use the self-checkout machine, pay with cash so the NSA won’t even know.
But when you’re a cripple who needs help with just about everything, lots of people get their nose in your business. Some people learn your eating, sleeping, spending and shitting habits. And there’s this tendency on the part of the cripple to want apologize or to convey a rationale that justifies your needs. The pressure is especially intense for cripples who believe they are spokescripples for all other cripples.
But that gets exhausting. At some point you just say fuck it. In the immortal words of Popeye, I am what I am. Or was that Descartes? Whatever. No need to explain.
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Purchasing Smart Ass Cripple books at lulu.com, subscribing on Amazon Kindle and filling the tip jar keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Friday, July 29, 2016
The Specials Olympics are Boring
The next round of the Special Olympics will be held in 2018 in Seattle. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? Well that’s okay. A lot of people didn’t know about it either. There wasn’t a lot of headline hoopla when Seattle was recently announced as the host city because compared to the regular ordinary unspecial Olympics, the Special Olympics are boring.
I know I’m not supposed to say that but I’m only reporting the sad facts. Let’s examine the things that make the Olympics interesting and newsworthy and compare it to the Special Olympics.
Let’s start with corruption. The Olympics are so fucking corrupt, which is fascinating. But you never hear about any of that with the Special Olympics. There isn’t the same cutthroat, backstabbing competition to land the Special Olympics, so you don’t hear stories about members of the Special Olympics selection committee being bribed with a tsunami of cash and cocaine and hookers. A story like that would surely generate a ton of big blaring headlines and a lot more people would pay attention to the Special Olympics.
And what about doping? You never hear anybody complain about doping in the Special Olympics. I’ve never heard anyone accuse the Russian government of secretly pumping their Special Olympians full of steroids. I bet Special Olympians aren’t even required to piss into a cup, are they?
The Special Olympics also can’t compete with the Olympics went it comes to creating social upheaval and unrest. I’d wager that not one slum has been bulldozed and its residents rendered homeless to make room for a posh village for Special Olympics athletes.
And then there’s insane jingoistic fervor. That’s what the plain old Olympics are all about. “Our shot putters can put a shot better than your shot putters can put it! USA! USA! USA! “ But do the Special Olympics whip up any insane jingoistic fervor at all? “Our cripples kicked your cripples asses! Our cripples are the best cripples in the WHOLE WORLD! Woo hoo!” I don’t think so. So how can anybody be expected to take the Special Olympics seriously as an international sporting event?
And I hate to say it but even compared to other sporting events besides the Olympics, the Special Olympics are still boring. Like soccer. To me, the most interesting thing about soccer is the way the crazy fans behave. I thought fans of American football were maniacs, but rival soccer fans will slit each other’s throats right there in the stands. But I don’t think there’s been a single fan riot fatality at the Special Olympics. Even baseball is more interesting than the Special Olympics. Ecstatic fans of the team that wins the World Series will run wild through the streets, flipping over cars and setting them on fire. Have you ever seen a news story about overjoyed Special Olympics fans doing anything like that?
No, the news stories you see about the Special Olympics are always about perseverance, teamwork and sportsmanship. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Purchasing Smart Ass Cripple books at lulu.com, subscribing on Amazon Kindle and filling the tip jar keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Friday, July 22, 2016
The Ethics of the 10-Toed Sloth
Behold the 10-toed sloth. See him in his natural habitat, sitting in his wheelchair at his desk and writing his silly little blog.
The 10-toed sloth is not ashamed to call himself a sloth. As a matter of fact, he’s proud of it. Sloths are deeply misunderstood creatures. People confuse sloth with apathy. But the sloth has dreams. The 10-toed sloth’s dream is to own a shitload of those machines filled with cheap stuffed animals and a kid drops a buck or so into a slot so they can try to win a stuffed animal by grabbing it with a crane claw. What a sweet deal that must be for the guy who owns the machine. Have you ever seen a kid actually successfully snag a stuffed animal with one of those things? And even if they do snag one every now and then, so what? They just paid a buck for a 50-cent stuffed animal. So the house always wins! It’s like a slot machine for kiddies.
The sloth's dream is the American dream. The American dream isn’t to get rich by working your ass off. The American dream is to get rich by doing as little work as possible. The American dream is winning the lottery.
And because the 10-toed sloth fervently believes in not working hard when he doesn’t have to, he is not above going for the cheap laugh. Why should he go through all the trouble of pulling an elaborate practical joke on someone when he can just fart? The sloth believes that the cheap laugh is the most rewarding laugh of all.
The sloth also believes it’s complete and utter bullshit that sloth is listed as one of the seven deadly sins. Whoever decided that must’ve been a real tight ass. He (no doubt it was a he) must’ve been some grumpy sonuvabitch who subscribed to the Protestant work ethic and wanted everybody else to be as miserable as he was. The sloth says fuck the Protestant work ethic! Why isn’t working your ass off one of the seven deadly sins? It should be deadly sin number one! Working your ass off will kill you faster than sitting on it will.
The sloth’s favorite holiday is New Year’s Day. This is the sloth’s High Holy Day. The sloth thinks it’s wonderful that we begin each year with a celebration of sloth where we sit on our asses, eat, drink and watch football. It makes the sloth feel that there still might be some hope for humanity. The sloth is amazed that New Year’s Day hasn’t been outlawed by the tightasses.
Some people are worried about the bees. They’re worried that the bees are going extinct and if that happens it will greatly upset the balance of things and as a result, Homo sapiens may very well also go extinct. The sloth agrees that what's happening to the bees really sucks, but what about the 10-toed sloth? The 10-toed sloth constantly faces the threat of extinction. That will greatly upset the balance of things, too. If the 10-toed sloth goes extinct, the tightasses, unchecked, will run wild! And as a result, Homo sapiens may very well also go extinct
Save the 10-toed sloth!
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Purchasing Smart Ass Cripple books at lulu.com, subscribing on Amazon Kindle and filling the tip jar keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
The 10-toed sloth is not ashamed to call himself a sloth. As a matter of fact, he’s proud of it. Sloths are deeply misunderstood creatures. People confuse sloth with apathy. But the sloth has dreams. The 10-toed sloth’s dream is to own a shitload of those machines filled with cheap stuffed animals and a kid drops a buck or so into a slot so they can try to win a stuffed animal by grabbing it with a crane claw. What a sweet deal that must be for the guy who owns the machine. Have you ever seen a kid actually successfully snag a stuffed animal with one of those things? And even if they do snag one every now and then, so what? They just paid a buck for a 50-cent stuffed animal. So the house always wins! It’s like a slot machine for kiddies.
The sloth's dream is the American dream. The American dream isn’t to get rich by working your ass off. The American dream is to get rich by doing as little work as possible. The American dream is winning the lottery.
And because the 10-toed sloth fervently believes in not working hard when he doesn’t have to, he is not above going for the cheap laugh. Why should he go through all the trouble of pulling an elaborate practical joke on someone when he can just fart? The sloth believes that the cheap laugh is the most rewarding laugh of all.
The sloth also believes it’s complete and utter bullshit that sloth is listed as one of the seven deadly sins. Whoever decided that must’ve been a real tight ass. He (no doubt it was a he) must’ve been some grumpy sonuvabitch who subscribed to the Protestant work ethic and wanted everybody else to be as miserable as he was. The sloth says fuck the Protestant work ethic! Why isn’t working your ass off one of the seven deadly sins? It should be deadly sin number one! Working your ass off will kill you faster than sitting on it will.
The sloth’s favorite holiday is New Year’s Day. This is the sloth’s High Holy Day. The sloth thinks it’s wonderful that we begin each year with a celebration of sloth where we sit on our asses, eat, drink and watch football. It makes the sloth feel that there still might be some hope for humanity. The sloth is amazed that New Year’s Day hasn’t been outlawed by the tightasses.
Some people are worried about the bees. They’re worried that the bees are going extinct and if that happens it will greatly upset the balance of things and as a result, Homo sapiens may very well also go extinct. The sloth agrees that what's happening to the bees really sucks, but what about the 10-toed sloth? The 10-toed sloth constantly faces the threat of extinction. That will greatly upset the balance of things, too. If the 10-toed sloth goes extinct, the tightasses, unchecked, will run wild! And as a result, Homo sapiens may very well also go extinct
Save the 10-toed sloth!
(Smart Ass Cripple is completely reader supported. Purchasing Smart Ass Cripple books at lulu.com, subscribing on Amazon Kindle and filling the tip jar keeps us going. Please help if you can.)
Thursday, July 14, 2016
The Dangers of Flamingo Plucking
I’m not easily amazed, but I’m amazed that there isn't an organized recreational activity known as flamingo plucking. (Challenge: get really realy drunk and say “flamingo plucking” ten times real fast.)
Because we live in a world where there are flamingos. And what unique and beautiful birds they are. Just look at that vibrant pink plumage. And it follows that whenever and wherever such unique and beautiful creatures exist, there are also exist some human creatures who feel compelled to fuck with them. It’s like this dumbass boy I once saw taunting a goose. The kid was at that age where you get a big testosterone rush out of doing stupid bully shit like taunting a goose. The goose was waddling along on the grass just minding its own damn business, followed by smaller geese. And the kid gets all up in the goose’s face and goes “HWONK!” The goose looked pissed. It went “HWONK” right back at the kid. And it was a big goose, about the same size as the kid. But the kid kept at it. “HWOOOONK! HWOOOOOOOOONK!” It was one of those moments we all have in life when we say to ourselves, “Where the hell are that kid’s parents?” The kid was lucky that the goose had more sense than he did and didn’t bite his fucking face off.
So it follows that since there are flamingos, there must also be flamingo pluckers. It's the kind of thing that could become all the rage on college campuses. The most likely candidates would be drunken frat boys on campuses in areas where flamingos are indigenous. In order to be accepted into the brotherhood, you must bring back to the house a genuine pink feather which you personally plucked from a live flamingo. And you must pluck the flamingo while naked. And so the young pledges sneak out to the swamp (or scale the fence of the zoo after hours). They creep up behind an unsuspecting flamingo, strip naked and whirl a lasso.
Other likely candidates for becoming flamingo pluckers would be the regular customers of eateries that have those gluttonous food challenges. Eat 12 pizzas in 20 minutes and you get a free t-shirt that says I’m a disgusting pig and your picture goes up on the prestigious Wall of Idiots. So it seems inevitable that by now one of those eateries in an area where there are lots of flamingos would offer a comparable bounty for every successfully plucked flamingo feather.
The reason why I know there must not be any of this sort of organized flamingo plucking going on is because I’ve met lots of cripples who became crippled in lots of bizarre ways, but I’ve never met anyone who was maimed by an irate flamingo. If there were any cripples like that out there, surely I would’ve met one by now. And if flamingo plucking was going on, there would be cripples like that out there for sure. They would be missing a least one eye and probably assorted other limbs and or digits. And they would serve the community by lecturing middle schoolers on the dangers of flamingo plucking. “Don’t make the same mistake I did, boys and girls. If someone tries to pressure you into going flamingo plucking, just say no.”
Because we live in a world where there are flamingos. And what unique and beautiful birds they are. Just look at that vibrant pink plumage. And it follows that whenever and wherever such unique and beautiful creatures exist, there are also exist some human creatures who feel compelled to fuck with them. It’s like this dumbass boy I once saw taunting a goose. The kid was at that age where you get a big testosterone rush out of doing stupid bully shit like taunting a goose. The goose was waddling along on the grass just minding its own damn business, followed by smaller geese. And the kid gets all up in the goose’s face and goes “HWONK!” The goose looked pissed. It went “HWONK” right back at the kid. And it was a big goose, about the same size as the kid. But the kid kept at it. “HWOOOONK! HWOOOOOOOOONK!” It was one of those moments we all have in life when we say to ourselves, “Where the hell are that kid’s parents?” The kid was lucky that the goose had more sense than he did and didn’t bite his fucking face off.
So it follows that since there are flamingos, there must also be flamingo pluckers. It's the kind of thing that could become all the rage on college campuses. The most likely candidates would be drunken frat boys on campuses in areas where flamingos are indigenous. In order to be accepted into the brotherhood, you must bring back to the house a genuine pink feather which you personally plucked from a live flamingo. And you must pluck the flamingo while naked. And so the young pledges sneak out to the swamp (or scale the fence of the zoo after hours). They creep up behind an unsuspecting flamingo, strip naked and whirl a lasso.
Other likely candidates for becoming flamingo pluckers would be the regular customers of eateries that have those gluttonous food challenges. Eat 12 pizzas in 20 minutes and you get a free t-shirt that says I’m a disgusting pig and your picture goes up on the prestigious Wall of Idiots. So it seems inevitable that by now one of those eateries in an area where there are lots of flamingos would offer a comparable bounty for every successfully plucked flamingo feather.
The reason why I know there must not be any of this sort of organized flamingo plucking going on is because I’ve met lots of cripples who became crippled in lots of bizarre ways, but I’ve never met anyone who was maimed by an irate flamingo. If there were any cripples like that out there, surely I would’ve met one by now. And if flamingo plucking was going on, there would be cripples like that out there for sure. They would be missing a least one eye and probably assorted other limbs and or digits. And they would serve the community by lecturing middle schoolers on the dangers of flamingo plucking. “Don’t make the same mistake I did, boys and girls. If someone tries to pressure you into going flamingo plucking, just say no.”
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
The Cripophobe at Costco
The guy at Costco really offended me. I could tell he was there to sell something by how he was dressed. He wore a vest and bow tie. He looked like he was waiting for the other three members of the barbershop quartet to show up. Except he didn’t have a straw hat. So either this guy was selling something or he was some kind of weirdo who puts on a barbershop quartet outfit and hangs around Costco. Either way I thought it prudent to avoid him.
As I past him I purposely didn’t make eye contact. I heard him say, “Excuse me, sir.” But he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the guy behind me. But the guy behind me kept walking. So then the barbershop quartet guy addressed the guy behind the guy behind me. “Excuse me, sir. Do you wish hair removal could be easier?”
The guy behind the guy behind me kept walking, too. But the barbershop quartet guy still didn’t approach me. He was purposely not making eye contact with me! And that’s when I felt offended! I hung around within earshot, pretending to be perusing the snack foods, until a customer stopped long enough to hear his sales pitch. He was selling the razors on proud display beside him. These were revolutionary razors. Laser razors, or something like that. They remove unsightly body hair in a flash!
The customer politely smiled and nodded and moved on. So the barbershop quartet guy looked around for someone else to approach. Even though I was sitting right there by the snack foods, he acted like I was invisible. Now I was really getting pissed! How dare he ignore me! Yeah I know, I was purposely not making eye contact with him, but so was everybody else. It didn’t stop him from approaching all of them.
This left only one possible explanation for his behavior. He must be a big time cripophobe. Maybe the thought of cripples with unsightly body hair gives him the creeps. Or maybe he’s one of those types that automatically assumes that all cripples are broke-ass welfare cases. A cripple like me can’t possibly afford a revolutionary laser razor. Well, let me tell you something, Jack! Cripples are a vast untapped market! According to the Chamber of Commerce, cripples represent something like $5 zillion in buying power! So screw you and your hot shot laser razor!
I circled back around and passed so close to the guy that he would have to break his neck to ignore me. Then the guy said to me, “Excuse me, sir. Do you wish hair removal could be easier?”
“No thanks,” I said and I turned and left. I felt much better after that. I’m glad he realized that even though I’m a cripple, I deserve to have the same opportunity as everybody else to blow him off.
As I past him I purposely didn’t make eye contact. I heard him say, “Excuse me, sir.” But he wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the guy behind me. But the guy behind me kept walking. So then the barbershop quartet guy addressed the guy behind the guy behind me. “Excuse me, sir. Do you wish hair removal could be easier?”
The guy behind the guy behind me kept walking, too. But the barbershop quartet guy still didn’t approach me. He was purposely not making eye contact with me! And that’s when I felt offended! I hung around within earshot, pretending to be perusing the snack foods, until a customer stopped long enough to hear his sales pitch. He was selling the razors on proud display beside him. These were revolutionary razors. Laser razors, or something like that. They remove unsightly body hair in a flash!
The customer politely smiled and nodded and moved on. So the barbershop quartet guy looked around for someone else to approach. Even though I was sitting right there by the snack foods, he acted like I was invisible. Now I was really getting pissed! How dare he ignore me! Yeah I know, I was purposely not making eye contact with him, but so was everybody else. It didn’t stop him from approaching all of them.
This left only one possible explanation for his behavior. He must be a big time cripophobe. Maybe the thought of cripples with unsightly body hair gives him the creeps. Or maybe he’s one of those types that automatically assumes that all cripples are broke-ass welfare cases. A cripple like me can’t possibly afford a revolutionary laser razor. Well, let me tell you something, Jack! Cripples are a vast untapped market! According to the Chamber of Commerce, cripples represent something like $5 zillion in buying power! So screw you and your hot shot laser razor!
I circled back around and passed so close to the guy that he would have to break his neck to ignore me. Then the guy said to me, “Excuse me, sir. Do you wish hair removal could be easier?”
“No thanks,” I said and I turned and left. I felt much better after that. I’m glad he realized that even though I’m a cripple, I deserve to have the same opportunity as everybody else to blow him off.
Friday, July 1, 2016
The Holy Quest for Orgasm
It isn’t often that a television show changes my life, but this one did. It was on a Christian channel, which I call WGOD.
It looked like there was a weird orgy going on in a church. People writhed in ecstasy. Some rolled in the aisles so overcome with joy that they spoke a gibberish language. Others chirped and grimaced as shockwaves of bliss rippled through their bodies like an earthquake. And still others collapsed into the pews or fell to their hands and knees, exhausted and spent.
It really looked and sounded just like an orgy except everybody had their clothes on and nobody had a partner. Or maybe the partner was invisible (i.e. Jesus). But they were all having orgasms— maybe not your standard wet and sloppy physical orgasms but orgasms nonetheless. Spiritual orgasms? I don’t know. But the result was the same: a torrent of tension and a burst of release followed by a warm glow and a glorious sense of oneness with all creatures.
Until that moment, these hardcore Christian types really creeped me out. But then it hit me that they aren’t that much different from me. When you get right down to it, they, like all grown humans, desire what I desire. We all desire a good strong orgasm.
I never realized this before because I was raised Catholic and Catholics aren’t allowed to have orgasms. It’s a sin. It says so in the Bible. The apple in the Garden of Eden symbolized orgasm. I don’t remember what the snake symbolized. But when Eve said fuck it and treated herself to a sweet juicy apple (i.e. orgasm) everything went to hell. So whenever a Catholic has an orgasm, that earns them something like 10,000 years in purgatory, or 15,000 if it’s a self-induced orgasm. But yet Catholics are called upon to procreate with abandon. So the challenge is to find a way to procreate without having an orgasm. That’s why it’s so very hard to be a true Catholic. (Some more liberal scholars may argue that papal doctrine does not forbid achieving orgasms, it only forbids enjoying achieving orgasms. Whatever. I’ll not engage in theological hair splitting.)
So when I reached the age when I felt I had to choose between loyalty to my inherited religion and orgasms, I stopped going to church. No contest. But seeing the quasi orgy on WGOD restored some of my faith in Christianity. It’s even made me a bit envious. I’ve never had an orgasm so massive that it made me speak a gibberish language. Now I have something new to add to my bucket list. But I don’t think I’ll try to achieve those heights via the Jesus route. I think he, of all people, can tell when you’re faking it.
So I say live and let live, brothers and sisters. We are all on the same journey. I wish you good luck and Godspeed in your quest to achieve multiple multiple multiple orgasms. Who cares if you get them from Jesus or a dildo?
It looked like there was a weird orgy going on in a church. People writhed in ecstasy. Some rolled in the aisles so overcome with joy that they spoke a gibberish language. Others chirped and grimaced as shockwaves of bliss rippled through their bodies like an earthquake. And still others collapsed into the pews or fell to their hands and knees, exhausted and spent.
It really looked and sounded just like an orgy except everybody had their clothes on and nobody had a partner. Or maybe the partner was invisible (i.e. Jesus). But they were all having orgasms— maybe not your standard wet and sloppy physical orgasms but orgasms nonetheless. Spiritual orgasms? I don’t know. But the result was the same: a torrent of tension and a burst of release followed by a warm glow and a glorious sense of oneness with all creatures.
Until that moment, these hardcore Christian types really creeped me out. But then it hit me that they aren’t that much different from me. When you get right down to it, they, like all grown humans, desire what I desire. We all desire a good strong orgasm.
I never realized this before because I was raised Catholic and Catholics aren’t allowed to have orgasms. It’s a sin. It says so in the Bible. The apple in the Garden of Eden symbolized orgasm. I don’t remember what the snake symbolized. But when Eve said fuck it and treated herself to a sweet juicy apple (i.e. orgasm) everything went to hell. So whenever a Catholic has an orgasm, that earns them something like 10,000 years in purgatory, or 15,000 if it’s a self-induced orgasm. But yet Catholics are called upon to procreate with abandon. So the challenge is to find a way to procreate without having an orgasm. That’s why it’s so very hard to be a true Catholic. (Some more liberal scholars may argue that papal doctrine does not forbid achieving orgasms, it only forbids enjoying achieving orgasms. Whatever. I’ll not engage in theological hair splitting.)
So when I reached the age when I felt I had to choose between loyalty to my inherited religion and orgasms, I stopped going to church. No contest. But seeing the quasi orgy on WGOD restored some of my faith in Christianity. It’s even made me a bit envious. I’ve never had an orgasm so massive that it made me speak a gibberish language. Now I have something new to add to my bucket list. But I don’t think I’ll try to achieve those heights via the Jesus route. I think he, of all people, can tell when you’re faking it.
So I say live and let live, brothers and sisters. We are all on the same journey. I wish you good luck and Godspeed in your quest to achieve multiple multiple multiple orgasms. Who cares if you get them from Jesus or a dildo?
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