Yep, Here Comes Another Ask Smart Ass Cripple

  

 Purging the mailbag.

 

Dear Smart Ass Cripple,

I sure wish Superman was for real, don’t you?

Sincerely,

A Big Christopher Reeve Fan

 

Dear Big CRF,

No, I’m very glad that Superman is merely fictitious because there are no phone booths anymore so Clark Kent would probably change into his Superman costume in the cripple stalls of public bathrooms because they’re so roomy. And there are already way too many cases of cripple stalls of public bathrooms being clogged up by verts (which is what I call people who walk, because it’s short for vertical).

I bet Clark Kent would’ve used cripple stalls in public bathrooms to change into Superman from jump except there was no such thing as a public cripple bathroom stall until about 50 years or so ago because there was no such thing as a cripple out in public until about 50 years or so ago.

So I’m glad Superman isn’t for real. It would mean one more pain in the ass for cripples to have to deal with.

Dear Smart Ass Cripple,

I suffer from low self-esteem. What should I do?

Yours truly,

Dorothy the Meek

 

Dear Dorothy the Meek,

Suffering from low self- esteem is stupid! What the hell’s the matter with you? If you pay attention to the people who put you down, you’re an idiot! Stop it right now!

 

Dear Esteemed  Mr. Smart Ass,

I am a little crippled boy. Would you be so kind as to pray for me?

With Warm Regards,

Timmy

 

Dear Timmy,

I’m so glad you asked me to pray for you. When I was little crippled boy about your age, I recited a prayer that helped me live as cripple in a world of verts (see above). As I recall, it went something like this:

“Oh Heavenly Father. Please deliver me from the vortex of shame. When others seek to diminish me because I am crippled, please bestow upon me the wisdom to recognize them as a bunch of dunderheads.

“And in addition, Oh Father, please grant me the strength to endureth byzantine bureaucracies, both public and private. In the future, when I am no longer an adorable criplet and I needeth something like a wheelchair or Social Security, please bless me with the tenacity to not take no for an answer. Please endow me with the ability to file appeal after appeal after appeal after appeal until the forces of recalcitrance finally relinquish that which I need to merely survive. And give me the fortitude to sue them if need be”

There are other stanzas from there that I don’t remember. It’s sort of like the Star Spangled Banner. But you get the idea.

I hope you find this helpful.

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Premature Hospice

 

 

There’s a caregiver agency called Home Instead. There’s another one called Home Again.

There are probably a bunch of others with Home in their name. There ought to be one called Home Forevermore because that would be honest. These agencies with Home in their names make it seem like all the people who use their services ever want to do is stay home all the time.

Maybe that’s true for some but not for me. That’s for damn sure. And I’m one of those people who uses services like theirs. Except I don’t use an agency. That’s also for damn sure. It’s ironic that they call them agencies because if you hire them you don’t have any agency. They just dispatch a stranger dressed in surgical scrubs. I have people come in and help me every day but I hire and train them myself and I fire them if I have to. I can’t believe anybody would want it any other way. And the wages of the people who work for me are paid by our tax dollars through a state program. And I don’t call the people who work for me caregivers. That word grates on me. It sounds too much like babysitter, I guess. I call them my pit crew. And I don’t let them wear surgical scrubs. I’d let them go naked before I’d let them wear surgical scrubs. I feel it’s my obligation to educate the masses by showing that not every cripple has to be constantly accompanied by a medical professional.

In the advertising of the caregiver agencies, the cripples and old people receiving the care are always home. It’s like the cripples are on house arrest. And they’re always happy as hell about it. It’s like their only goal in life is to stay home all the time and the job of their caregivers is to keep them there. I suppose being at home all the time beats the hell out of being looked up in some stinkin nursing home all the time, if those are your only options. 

But if all an agency is going to do is send people to just keep me comfy at home, that sounds like a nursing home on wheels to me. If I had to stay home all the time I’d go nuts. I’m super susceptible to cabin fever. If I had to stay home all the time I’d feel like I’m in hospice. Now don’t get me wrong. I got nothing against people in hospice. Some of my best friends are in hospice. Well, they were. Far be it from me to engage in terminal illness shaming. If I was terminally ill, I wouldn’t be ashamed to admit it. I’d hold my head high.  I wouldn’t try to pretend I’m somebody I’m not.

But I’m not terminally ill yet. So until the time comes, I’m interested in getting out and about a lot. That’s why I have a pit crew. I have things to see and people to do. There’ll be plenty of time for that sitting around doing nothing stuff when I’m terminally ill, or after I’m dead.

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The Age of Consent

  

I know the age of consent is generally 18. That’s the age where we’re considered to be old enough to understand what we’re getting into when we do stuff like have sex.

If you’re 18 you can kill people, as long as you join the armed forces first. And you can also vote but you can’t drink beer.

But I think there are some things for which the age of consent ought to be a whole lot higher than 18. One of those things in particular is shilling for cripple charities. Believe me, I know. I used to be one of those charity spokescriplets. I was a poster child for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. But by the grace of God it was way back when I was cute and apple-cheeked. And that was long before the internet, so precious little, if any, historical record of my reign remains. These days, if you do something regrettable in public, it’s likely to be recorded somehow and forever enshrined on the internet.

It’s true that nobody held a gun to my head and forced me to be a poster kid. I did it for the same reason I went to church. My heart wasn’t in it but doing it pleased the adults around me. But I can see now that I was far too young to understand the potential consequences of my actions.

There was no way I could begin to comprehend concepts like oppression and it’s deep cultural roots and how the life-blood of cripple oppression is the insidious mask of benevolence and compassion it hides behind and the manner in which my playing the role of an eternally-grateful Tiny Tim with no agency except my begging prowess deepens the roots of cripple oppression by reinforcing the one-dimensional stereotypes on which it thrives.

That’s some heavy shit for an 8 year old to wrap their arms around. Hell, that’s some heavy shit for a 38 year old to wrap their arms around. So I think the age of consent for being a cripple poster child ought to be at least 45. I don’t see how anyone with less life experience than that can grasp how what they’re doing impacts others. And they’re bound to have the same jolt of remorse later in life that I had, like when you want to have an ugly tattoo removed. Except these days it’s worse because with the internet, ugly tattoos are permanent.  

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Peter Piper Syndrome

 

 

 The grinding anxiety I've been feeling lately could be described as Peter Piper Syndrome.

Suppose there was actually a guy named Peter Piper. There probably is one somewhere. He’s the offspring of a couple smart ass parents with the last name of Piper. But it’s inevitable that the life of somebody named Peter Piper would take a tragic wrong turn because he would be constantly bombarded with comments like, “Where's the peck of pickled peppers you picked?” After hearing that witticism for the 12 zillionth time, he’d be bound to snap and go on an axe-murdering spree.

I feel the same way whenever I encounter this guy who lives in the same building I live in. He sees me rolling by in my motorized wheelchair and he always says, “You better slow down or you’re gonna get a speeding ticket!” Sometimes he shouts it from across the street. He doesn’t mean any harm. He just doesn’t realize that I’ve heard that joke 12 zillion times. It’s right up there with, “Hey hot rod, you got a license for that thing?” And I don’t have the heart to tell him because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. So,  for his own protection, I go out of my way to avoid him because I’m afraid that if he says that to me one more time I’ll snap and “accidentally” take his legs out from under him and knock him down an elevator shaft.

How would Peter Piper defend himself in court? He’d probably have to throw himself at the mercy of the jury by claiming some sort of temporary insanity defense. He’d tearfully recount the excruciating torture of hearing that same fucking wise crack over and over and over.

I’d have to do the same thing if I went on trial for knocking my neighbor down an elevator shaft. But I’d insist that there be at least one wheelchair cripple on the jury of my peers. Because every wheelchair cripple I know has also heard that speeding ticket joke 12 zillion times. So there would be a good chance at least one juror could totally relate to my pain and refuse to convict.

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Expedited Shipping of Sex Toys

  

 I checked out a couple of sites on the internet that sell sex toys. I couldn’t help myself. I was too curious.

I had to know if these sites offered expedited shipping, where, for an extra cost, you can receive your purchase the next day.  Because all the other websites, where you can buy stuff like toothpaste and shoes, offer expedited shipping. And sure enough, both of the sex toy sites offered it, too.

I wondered what kind of sex toy emergency might arise where someone would absolutely have to have it the next day. I suppose there could be a scenario where someone has a hot date lined up and, like a dumbass, they didn’t plan ahead and here it is the night before and now they have to scramble in order to get everything all lined up.

I imagine expedited shipping of sex toys is illegal in some states. If so, I’m sure it’s probably states where there are a lot of tight-ass religious types in charge. The tight-ass religious types are the ones most freaked out about sex toys. It’s not sex toys per se that they have such a problem with. It’s fun that freaks them out. Fun terrifies them. Fun is the devil. And there’s nothing more fun than sex toys. Having fun is the whole point of sex toys.

I bet if the tight-ass religious people could have things completely their way, the sale possession of sex toys would be a felony. But even they must realize the futility of that sort of mandated abstinence. I bet humans have been playing with sex toys for as long as there have been humans, or reasonable facsimiles of humans. I bet Neanderthals made sex toys out of found objects, like pine cones and dead beavers. Playing with sex toys is one of those things like drinking and dancing. A good number of people will always figure out a way to do it, even if it’s against the law or mama’s religion. If people can’t buy sex toys on the free market, they’ll buy back alley sex toys and that can lead to all kinds of painful consequences, like tongue splinters.

So if the tight-ass religious types can’t completely ban sex toys, they’ll do like they do when it comes to abortion. They’ll find ways to limit access every chance they get. Making expedited shipping of sex toys illegal would be their sneaky little way of instituting a cooling-off period.

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Dancing With My Blower

 

 I hope I get an opportunity to dance again, at a wedding or something like that. Because a couple years ago I had this attachment added to my motorized wheelchair that makes it possible for me to drive the chair hands-free by blowing into a hose. I call this attachment my blower.

 I got a blower because sometimes it’s too difficult for me to drive with my hand, especially outdoors where the terrain is rough and/or when my hands are cold. It took a good deal of practice for me to become proficient at blower driving because it’s tricky.  You have to exhale to go forward and inhale to reverse etc. etc. I still have dents and gashes in the walls of my home that were created when I zigged instead of zagging while using my blower.

But now I’m a blower driving pro! If there was an Olympic downhill slalom event for blower drivers, I’d probably win the gold fucking medal!

But one thing I haven’t tried out while using the blower yet is dancing. I could dance pretty good driving with my hand. I could whirl my chair around in a circle and all. But it’ll take a whole lot of hard concentration to dance using my blower without flattening too many of the other people on the dancefloor. 

Whenever I go out on the dancefloor in my wheelchair, it’s inevitable that I’ll receive enthusiastic accolades from many of the dancing verts (which it what I call people who walk because it’s short for verticals). They smile big and applaud me or flash me a triumphant thumbs up. Sometimes the drunken ones cut in and make it a dancing threesome. This unwarranted 0effusiveness makes me uneasy because I fear that in their minds, by being out there dancing I’m demonstrating how brave and courageous I am. Maybe that’s why some verts get all overcome like that when they see cripples having fun.  Maybe they expect us to be so sad and tragic all the time and they’re pleasantly stunned to see us behaving the opposite. But really, I’m dancing for the same reason they are. I just feel like dancing and maybe I can think of a whole bunch of reasons why I shouldn’t but I say fuck it and go do it anyway. But then again, I guess that’s a form of bravery, when a person thinks of a whole bunch of reasons why they shouldn’t do something but then says fuck it and does it anyway.  I guess I don’t mind being seen as that kind of brave.

So when I dance by using my blower, some of the verts will probably be super duper overcome to see me on the dancefloor. But fuck it, I’ll do it anyway.

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Side Effects and The Quality of Life

 (Trigger warning. This entry contains multiple references to diarrhea.)

I have a friend who’s crippled for the same reason I am. He’s also about the same age as me.

I’ve written before about how this friend is getting this new treatment that supposedly might make life marginally better for people who are crippled for the same reason we are. But the treatment required getting a monthly spinal injection. So I said no thanks. I’m just not into pursuing cripple treatments and cures that require any more effort than eating my spinach. Maybe I’m just lazy, but I tell myself it’s a quality of life thing. Rather than running back and forth to a doctor’s office or working out incessantly in a physical therapy gym for countless hours, I’d rather spend whatever time I have left doing things I find much more fulfilling, like staring at the wall.

But recently my friend told me that the treatment no longer requires spinal injections. Now he just takes an oral medication daily. This prompted me to consider reconsidering signing up for this treatment. That didn’t sound like much effort. My friend told me the name of the medication and I thought about asking my doctor about it.

But there’s been a dramatic new development that has made me reconsider any thought of reconsidering. My friend has informed me that a side effect of the medication is that it sometimes gives him diarrhea. Diarrhea is one of my worst nightmares because in order for me to take a dump, I need someone to lift me on and off the bowl. So it’s imperative that I have well–trained, cooperative, predictable, disciplined bowels that only rumble during the designated hours when I’ve scheduled someone to be around to lift me on and off of the bowl. An uprising at any other time of day is, obviously, a source of great stress for me.

Thus far in life, I’ve been blessed with a tremendous talent for holding it all in until such time as it's safe to let loose. This is such a gift that it’s almost enough to make me believe in God.

So I won’t be signing up for this cripple treatment, even if it is just a simple matter of taking a daily dose of oral medication. I dare not thumb my nose at fate like that.

It’s a quality of life thing.

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