Maybe I’m just too cynical. Maybe I ought to lighten up a little.
But I can’t help it. I call the 800 number for the Illinois Tollway so I can add funds to that little box on my van dashboard that lets me zip through toll stops without going to a human in a booth. I’m on hold and a recording says calls are handled by people working for the Lighthouse for the Blind.
I know hearing that is supposed to make me feel good. And I’m sure that’s the effect it has on 99.999999999999999 percent of callers. Who wouldn’t think hiring the handicapped is a mighty fine thing to do? But I hear that stuff about the Lighthouse and I say to myself, “So what’s the catch?”
And then I say to myself, “Why not India?” Because if an outfit employing cripples landed this customer service contract, they must have underbid India for it. So this smells like one of those deals where cripples get paid pennies an hour.
Now it’s true that this is a government contract and the government has a hard time justifying shipping jobs to India. But hell, governments love to bust unions, too. So while I’m sitting there enduring the on-hold music, I picture a scene with several rows of galley slaves working the oars, while a stern foreman with a whip patrols the aisle. Except instead of slaves working oars I see several rows of cubicles occupied by chattering blind people wearing headsets. A blind man falls to the ground in exhaustion and the sadistic foreman pounces and whips him until he climbs back up in his chair and gets back to work.
And if a blind person can’t hold up under the rigors of customer service, there are plenty more blind people waiting in line to take his/her place. I picture scores of migrant blind customer service workers, looking dirty and ragged like Okies, all headed across the Great Plains to Illinois in their covered wagons. Back at the migrant camp, after a grueling day of listening to customers bitch and moan, the blind workers huddle around the warm campfire wrapped in stiff and scratchy horse blankets. Each forlorn blind person takes a sip from a soup ladle before passing it on. One of the blind people plays sad music on a harmonica.
What the hell’s the matter with me? Why can’t I just relax and let myself feel all warm and fuzzy while waiting to be served, instead of conjuring up a disturbing fantasy of brutal exploitation? But there is one good thing about it. At least it takes my mind off the on-hold music.
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Monday, March 13, 2017
Monday, March 6, 2017
The Artificial Drooler
Well okay, I guess you can say things have improved a little for cripples over the last 20 years or so.
Twenty years or so ago, I went to see this play where the main character was a guy in a wheelchair who had cerebral palsy. I don’t remember the title of the play. All I remember was that it was written and performed by a traveling theater company that does plays about “social issues.” Yikes! That should have been a big red flag. But I went to see the play anyway, despite being fully aware of the risk involved in doing so. I guess I figured, “How bad could it be?”
This was that theater company’s first foray into the “social issue” of crippledom. Needless to say, the role of the man with cerebral palsy who’s in a wheelchair was not played by a guy who really did have cerebral palsy or was in a wheelchair. To me it was obvious from the start that he wasn’t an authentic cripple by the way he spazzed it up like Jerry Lewis on coke. From my vantage point in the back row, I could even see drool glistening on his chin throughout the play.
The sad protagonist lived a life of brutal rejection. He was rejected by his family, by kids in school, by employers, by females. It got to the point where he sat on stage alone in his wheelchair delivering a spazzed-out tragic soliloquy about how much it sucks to be him. And then he put the barrel of a loaded gun in his mouth.
The audience gasped. And that’s when the action froze and the audience participation part began. (Yikes! A play about “social issues” that includes audience participation! Any play like that should be required to have a Surgeon General’s warning.) As the faux cripple sat motionless on stage with a gun in his mouth, one of the administrators of the theater company entered from the wings and asked the audience to determine the ending of the play. Should the cripple blow his brains out or not?
A spirited audience discussion ensued about the pros and cons of cripples blowing their brains out. No one mentioned the the fact any cripple that was as spazzed out as this one probably would have shot off his nose or something while attempting to put the gun in his mouth. In the end, the audience decided that the brave protagonist should resolve to keep on living in spite of it all. I can’t remember whether it was a voice vote or a show of hands.
So the action unfroze and the actor took the gun out of his mouth and delivered a final soliloquy about how he’s going to keep on living in spite of it all. The end. The audience applauded vigorously as the actors took their bows. Of course the star bowed last and before he did, he rose from his wheelchair, much to the audience’s surprise and delight. And then he unhooked something from his lower lip and held it high for all to see. Turns out the chin drool was fake. Yep, somebody in the props department actually made him a drool prosthesis.
Like I said, that was 20 years or so ago. I’ve seen a lot of horrifyingly grating stuff about cripples on stage and screen since then. But I’ve still not seen anything as excruciating as that.
So maybe things have improved a little.
(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.)
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Not Burning to Death as an Act of Defiance
At first the sound of the siren is way off in the distance. But then it swells until it’s right in front of the building where I live. Then the siren fades and I hear a fire truck idling beneath my window. Sometimes there are two or three fire trucks.
This happens at least once a week. About 500 people live in my building so the odds of someone doing something to set off their smoke alarm are high. The cause always turns out to be something like burnt popcorn.
But each time I wonder just a little if this time it just might be the big one. What if it really is a fire and I, being a cripple, cannot escape? Of course I don’t want to burn to death for the same reason nobody else wants to. I imagine it hurts like hell. But I also feel that I have a political obligation not to burn to death. Not burning to death, to me, is an act of defiance. Because some people warned me back when I was a criplet that someday, if I got too pushy and bold, I would probably burn to death. “You’ll never be able live on your own! What if there’s a fire?" Or, “You can’t come into this theater/restaurant/fill-in-the-blank! What if there’s a fire?” Etc.
The only place a cripple would be safe from burning to death would be a nursing home. Because everybody knows nursing homes never catch fire. They’re all made of miraculous fireproof materials.
It really sucks when I hear that criplets of today are still being intimidated by that same what-if-there’s-a-fire shit. And that’s why I feel that the best way to support those who reject that nonsense and dive into life anyway is to make damn sure that I die by any means other than burning to death. Because if I do burn to death, I will surely be made an example of. “See, we told you! Here’s what happens when a cripple takes a risk!” My charred corpse will become a poster child.
So I have extra incentive to avoid burning to death. I don’t want to let my fellow cripples down. You know those people who douse themselves with gasoline and set themselves on fire in order to make a political statement? I’m the opposite of those guys. I want my tombstone to read, “Here lies Smart Ass Cripple. Well, at least he didn’t burn to death.”
(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.)
This happens at least once a week. About 500 people live in my building so the odds of someone doing something to set off their smoke alarm are high. The cause always turns out to be something like burnt popcorn.
But each time I wonder just a little if this time it just might be the big one. What if it really is a fire and I, being a cripple, cannot escape? Of course I don’t want to burn to death for the same reason nobody else wants to. I imagine it hurts like hell. But I also feel that I have a political obligation not to burn to death. Not burning to death, to me, is an act of defiance. Because some people warned me back when I was a criplet that someday, if I got too pushy and bold, I would probably burn to death. “You’ll never be able live on your own! What if there’s a fire?" Or, “You can’t come into this theater/restaurant/fill-in-the-blank! What if there’s a fire?” Etc.
The only place a cripple would be safe from burning to death would be a nursing home. Because everybody knows nursing homes never catch fire. They’re all made of miraculous fireproof materials.
It really sucks when I hear that criplets of today are still being intimidated by that same what-if-there’s-a-fire shit. And that’s why I feel that the best way to support those who reject that nonsense and dive into life anyway is to make damn sure that I die by any means other than burning to death. Because if I do burn to death, I will surely be made an example of. “See, we told you! Here’s what happens when a cripple takes a risk!” My charred corpse will become a poster child.
So I have extra incentive to avoid burning to death. I don’t want to let my fellow cripples down. You know those people who douse themselves with gasoline and set themselves on fire in order to make a political statement? I’m the opposite of those guys. I want my tombstone to read, “Here lies Smart Ass Cripple. Well, at least he didn’t burn to death.”
(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, February 22, 2017
Just Very Very Beautiful Women and Me
I feel a deep yearning to start a support group where I can share my feelings and vulnerabilities with people who experience the same insensitive treatment that I do. This would be a very exclusive support group. Membership would be open only to very very beautiful women and me.
Because a lot of times I hear cripples talk about how when they’re out and about on the streets, they feel invisible. Sorry, but I don’t understand that one at all. If anything, when I'm roaming the streets I feel hyper visible, like there’s a reverse Where’s Waldo type of thing happening. Just take one look at the aerial snapshot of the teeming crowd and the first thing you’ll see is me.
And I also hear cripples complain a lot about how other people crane their necks staring at them. Again, my experience is the opposite. I find that people crane their necks trying to pretend like they’re not staring. Like for instance, I’m in line at a fast food place. I make sudden and unexpected eye contact with the guy across from me in the next line. He quickly looks away and pretends to be endlessly fascinated with the napkin dispenser.
Whenever this happens to me, I imagine that it must inevitably happen all the time to very very beautiful women, too. I know how guys are. Through years or practice, mostly trial and error, they’ve all refined their technique for sneaking a peek. Peek sneaking, be it at cripples or at beautiful women or miscellaneous, has become a lot easier with the advent of smartphones. You always have a trusty device nearby that you can whip out and pretend to be staring at while you’re really staring at something beyond.
This is why I often feel a sense of warm solidarity with very very beautiful women. I want to bond with them and derive mutual comfort. Now of course I won’t deny that my experience as a crippled white male is not exactly parallel to that of a woman. The difference is most apparent when I pass a construction site. There’s something about the vibe of a construction site that makes some men ditch all sense of decorum and say exactly how they feel about passing women. They’ll say something crude like, “Oooh mama! Gimme some of that!”’ But as far as I know, construction workers never say exactly how they feel about passing cripples. If they did, we’d be hearing stuff like, “Hey cripple, you make me feel a great sense of anxiety because you remind me of the fragility of human existence and how I can join your ranks at any moment and thus becomes increasingly dependent on the rapidly-eroding social safety net! So get lost!”
Nevertheless, I still think forming a support group for very very beautiful women and me is a great idea. And I know there are many other cripples out there who would benefit from being a part of my group as well. But screw them. Let them form their own damn support group.
(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.)
Monday, February 13, 2017
Trying to Confuse my Wheelchair or A Man Without a Demographic
You see one day last summer I went into this boutique that sells women’s lingerie. I was just in there for a few minutes and I didn’t buy anything. The only reason I went into the place was that I was being stalked and I wanted to throw the stalker off the scent.
I wasn’t being literally stalked, just virtually. I just got this new wheelchair at the time and there’s a display window on the drive box that shows the time and date. And every once in a while a warning appears in the display window commanding me to update the time and date. And chair won’t move until I do it.
Why is it so urgent that the time and date always be current? I surmised that it’s because, like everything else these days, my new chair must contain a secret tracking devise that constantly monitors and records my whereabouts.
Why would the government waste time and money spying on me? That’s the thing. I don’t think it’s the government that’s behind it. I think it’s an even more evil entity with a sinister agenda and elaborate spy apparatus, like maybe Google or Facebook. They made a deal with the wheelchair manufacturer and they’re watching my every move with their tracking device so as to determine my demographic so they can bombard me with the proper barrage of targeted ads on the internet.
And I resent that. My demographic is none of their damn business. And just what the hell is my demographic anyway? I like to think of myself as a man without a demographic. Demographics are dehumanizing. They’re a pigeonhole, a trap. So whenever I catch myself settling too comfortably within the constraints of a certain demographic, I try to engage in some form of undemographiclike behavior, just to keep myself honest. Being a man without a demographic in a capitalist consumer culture can be lonely. It’s like being a man without a country. Your demographic is your home, the place where you find the comfort of community and your sense of identity. A man without a demographic is an expatriate. But oh well.
But you can’t give a virtual stalker the slip like you can an actual stalker. Wherever you go, it goes, like a shackle. The best you can do is confuse it. So when I’m out and about in my wheelchair, I take a lot of detours. I drop in places I would never otherwise ever go, such as American Girl, a Baptist church or a fitness center. I’m doing it to confuse my wheelchair. And then maybe those nosey bastards trying to figure out my demographic will write me off as a lost cause and leave me the hell alone.
(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.)
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Wingman
A guy of about late high school or early college age came out of a bowling alley. With him was a female of about the same age . Between them was a Down Syndrome dude, probably the same age, carrying a bowling bag.
And I immediately jumped to conclusions. “Wingman!” I said to myself when I saw the Down Syndrome dude. I knew what this was all about. I was once an unwitting wingman. It happened a lot to me and the other crippled campers at Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp. They called the teens who tended to us our counselors. And there were some counselors there whose primary purpose for being at Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp was to end up “in the bushes.” That’s what they called it when counselors went off to copulate because that’s literally what they had to do. They had to find a secluded spot in the bushes somewhere. And if they got caught in the bushes by camp staff they were kicked out of camp.
The counselors who were using me as a wingman were the ones who called me stuff like “sport” and “tiger” as they rubbed my head and messed up my hair. They were attentive as hell when females were around because females are really impressed with that sensitivity stuff you know. They eat it up. When you’re a kid you don’t really think about it. You just like the attention being a wingman brings you. But when I got to be old enough to figure out what it all means, I resented the wingman treatment because the last thing I wanted to do was facilitate somebody else’s trip to the bushes. I hoped that by some miracle I’d get some of that bush action myself. In fact, I wanted to be the first cripple to be kicked out of Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp for being caught in the bushes. That would’ve made me the legend of all camp legends.
Thus, I felt a sense of wingman solidarity with the Down Syndrome dude. He looked like he was at the age where he would feel that same resentment. But then it hit me that I was engaging in some pretty awful stereotyping. Why did I automatically assume that the Down Syndrome dude was being exploited as a wingman in this situation? I mean, why couldn’t it be the other way around? Maybe the Down Syndrome dude was the one trying to move in on the female. And maybe he invited his poor uncrippled friend who doesn’t have a girlfriend along on their bowling date just to show her how compassionate he is. I guess subconsciously I didn’t think a Down Syndrome person was capable of such a thing. I really sold that guy short.
I learned a lot about myself that day.
(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.)
And I immediately jumped to conclusions. “Wingman!” I said to myself when I saw the Down Syndrome dude. I knew what this was all about. I was once an unwitting wingman. It happened a lot to me and the other crippled campers at Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp. They called the teens who tended to us our counselors. And there were some counselors there whose primary purpose for being at Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp was to end up “in the bushes.” That’s what they called it when counselors went off to copulate because that’s literally what they had to do. They had to find a secluded spot in the bushes somewhere. And if they got caught in the bushes by camp staff they were kicked out of camp.
The counselors who were using me as a wingman were the ones who called me stuff like “sport” and “tiger” as they rubbed my head and messed up my hair. They were attentive as hell when females were around because females are really impressed with that sensitivity stuff you know. They eat it up. When you’re a kid you don’t really think about it. You just like the attention being a wingman brings you. But when I got to be old enough to figure out what it all means, I resented the wingman treatment because the last thing I wanted to do was facilitate somebody else’s trip to the bushes. I hoped that by some miracle I’d get some of that bush action myself. In fact, I wanted to be the first cripple to be kicked out of Jerry Lewis cripple summer camp for being caught in the bushes. That would’ve made me the legend of all camp legends.
Thus, I felt a sense of wingman solidarity with the Down Syndrome dude. He looked like he was at the age where he would feel that same resentment. But then it hit me that I was engaging in some pretty awful stereotyping. Why did I automatically assume that the Down Syndrome dude was being exploited as a wingman in this situation? I mean, why couldn’t it be the other way around? Maybe the Down Syndrome dude was the one trying to move in on the female. And maybe he invited his poor uncrippled friend who doesn’t have a girlfriend along on their bowling date just to show her how compassionate he is. I guess subconsciously I didn’t think a Down Syndrome person was capable of such a thing. I really sold that guy short.
I learned a lot about myself that day.
(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.)
Monday, January 30, 2017
Smart Ass Cripple's Adolescent Clinical Research Trial Fantasy
I guess I was a weird adolescent. Because back in those days I saw a lot of crippled kids on television, especially during telethons and shit, pining for a cure. It was like the sad dog montage on those ASPCA commercials. Cripples doing nothing all day but hoping this will finally be the day when a clinical research trial for a cure pops up so they can drop everything and immediately sign up.
But for some reason, I was never one of those cripples. If someone came up with a pill that was guaranteed to instantly cure me, with no additional effort on my part other than swallowing it, I supposed I might get in line to take it. But until then, I had other stuff to do. As a teenager, I wanted what every teenager wants. I was much more concerned with getting laid than getting cured. And no research lab was trying to come up with a pill that would help me get laid. There was no heartbreaking montage on television of crippled youth who were sad because they couldn’t get laid.
Now if there had been a clinical research trial for something like that, then hell yeah, I sure would have dropped everything to sign up! Seeking horny adolescent cripples who want to get laid for participation in a research trial. I’d stomp over all the other cripples to be first guinea pig! I wouldn’t care what the treatment was. Take a pill that causes me to emit pheromones that attract females? Chromosomal manipulation to make me irresistible? Whatever! I’m game!
First they’d make me sign a consent form that says among the potential treatment side effects are dizziness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, migraine headaches, sudden tooth loss, renal failure, seizures, terrifying psychotic hallucinations, early onset Alzheimer’s and crotch rot.
“Sounds like a no-brainer to me, “ adolescent me would have said. “Where do I sign?” And maybe, as was often the case with research subjects, I’d even receive a stipend. Getting paid to get laid? Paradise!
My room at the research facility would be like a super cool bachelor pad— a heart-shaped waterbed, champagne on ice, mirrors all over the place. The research assistants in their white lab coats help me transfer into the hot tub. They give me a pill and leave. A few minutes later, a buxom woman enters through the bead curtain. She wears a negligee. Her eyes are filled with burning desire. She approaches the hot tub.
But then, at precisely the wrong moment, it would’ve occurred to adolescent me that all those mirrors are probably two-way mirrors and all those research perverts in their white lab coats are watching me from the other side and getting their jollies! I’d be too self-conscious and distracted to perform and I’d be written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project.
Or the other likely scenario would be me in the hot tub and the woman enters but she’s not the tiniest bit interested in me and nothing happens. I’m written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project, but at least it’s not my fault. I was in the placebo group.
I guess I was a weird adolescent.
(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.)
But for some reason, I was never one of those cripples. If someone came up with a pill that was guaranteed to instantly cure me, with no additional effort on my part other than swallowing it, I supposed I might get in line to take it. But until then, I had other stuff to do. As a teenager, I wanted what every teenager wants. I was much more concerned with getting laid than getting cured. And no research lab was trying to come up with a pill that would help me get laid. There was no heartbreaking montage on television of crippled youth who were sad because they couldn’t get laid.
Now if there had been a clinical research trial for something like that, then hell yeah, I sure would have dropped everything to sign up! Seeking horny adolescent cripples who want to get laid for participation in a research trial. I’d stomp over all the other cripples to be first guinea pig! I wouldn’t care what the treatment was. Take a pill that causes me to emit pheromones that attract females? Chromosomal manipulation to make me irresistible? Whatever! I’m game!
First they’d make me sign a consent form that says among the potential treatment side effects are dizziness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, migraine headaches, sudden tooth loss, renal failure, seizures, terrifying psychotic hallucinations, early onset Alzheimer’s and crotch rot.
“Sounds like a no-brainer to me, “ adolescent me would have said. “Where do I sign?” And maybe, as was often the case with research subjects, I’d even receive a stipend. Getting paid to get laid? Paradise!
My room at the research facility would be like a super cool bachelor pad— a heart-shaped waterbed, champagne on ice, mirrors all over the place. The research assistants in their white lab coats help me transfer into the hot tub. They give me a pill and leave. A few minutes later, a buxom woman enters through the bead curtain. She wears a negligee. Her eyes are filled with burning desire. She approaches the hot tub.
But then, at precisely the wrong moment, it would’ve occurred to adolescent me that all those mirrors are probably two-way mirrors and all those research perverts in their white lab coats are watching me from the other side and getting their jollies! I’d be too self-conscious and distracted to perform and I’d be written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project.
Or the other likely scenario would be me in the hot tub and the woman enters but she’s not the tiniest bit interested in me and nothing happens. I’m written off as a failure and kicked out of the research project, but at least it’s not my fault. I was in the placebo group.
I guess I was a weird adolescent.
(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.)
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