Cripples in Heat

 

I never received sex education in school. I’m sure there are two main reasons why.

The first reason was probably because that was during the 1960s and early 1970s, when sex education wasn’t a regular feature of school curricula. But the biggest reason was probably because the schools I went to prior to college were for cripples only and whereas the idea of talking about sexuality in school was controversial enough at the time, the idea of uttering a word about sex in a school full of cripples would’ve been considered downright perverted. Hell, it was the kind of thing that might even get you arrested.

Because for some reason, some people seem to think that cripples aren’t interested in sex and it’s best to keep it that way. Maybe they think that cripples spend all of our time suffering and suffering takes up all of our limited time and energy so we don’t get around to worrying about things like getting laid. I think it comes from the perspective that sees cripples as childlike, no mater how old we are. And so exposing cripples to sex in any way is like exposing children to sex. It practically makes you a pedophile.

One thing I know about people who believe stuff like that is that they must not know any cripples very well. Cripples are probably the horniest people I know.  It seems like cripples are always in heat. You know what I mean if you’ve ever been to a large gathering of cripples, like a conference or a convention or a protest action or something, and witnessed everyone buzzing around trying to get laid.

But even though the education system didn’t tell us criplets anything about how sex works, we figured it out anyway, like all kids do. I don’t recall how I figured it out. I think that I just kept my ears open and one day it all clicked. They say that if a kid has questions about sex, they’re supposed to ask their parents about it. But those were the last people I thought about asking because I assumed they didn’t know a damn thing about such stuff. And when I did figure out how it all worked, my parents were the last people I wanted tell because I thought I knew some deep, dark secret they did know and if I tried to explain it to them they’d be all grossed out. But when  I figured out that part, too, I was the one who was grossed out.

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The Inspiring Story of Bucket Foot Bob

 

I went to a support group meeting for cripples. A new guy limped in. He clanged when he walked because his right foot was stuck in a bucket.

Even all us cripples couldn’t help but stare at him and some even snickered. But the new guy just kept walking straight on in and sat in a chair. He propped his right foot up on a stool in front of him.

The facilitator of our group said, “I’d like everyone to welcome our visitor, Bucket Foot Bob.”

Bucket Foot Bob jumped right in and said, “Actually, my name is Maurice. But you can call me Bucket Foot Bob if you want to. Why not? Everybody else does. I used to hate that name but now I’m trying to learn to embrace it.”

Bucket Foot Bob continued. “Because as you can see, my foot is stuck in a bucket. I don’t know how it happened. One night I got blackout drunk and when I woke up in the morning, there it was. And having my foot stuck in a bucket has cost me dearly in life. I have been the victim of much discrimination. I lost my job. My boss told me that my clanging around the office was too distracting for my coworkers. My wife left me. She said I wasn’t the same man she married anymore, what with my foot stuck in a bucket and all. My landlord evicted me because the people in the apartment below mine complained that I made too much noise when I  walked.”

As I listened to Bucket Foot Bob’s sad story, I felt real sorry for him, but I wondered why he didn’t just have the bucket removed.

And then Bucket Foot Bob said, “You’re probably wondering why I don’t just have the bucket removed. Well, don’t you think I’ve tried that? I mean, my foot is really jammed in there good. I’ve tried everything to get it out. I’ve tried crow bars. I’ve tried lard. But my foot won’t budge.

“My only option is to have it surgically removed. But that operation costs $10,000. I have health insurance, but it doesn’t cover bucket removal. Maybe someday we’ll have socialized medicine in this country and I’ll be able to have my bucket removed, no cost and no questions asked. But until then, I’m stuck, no pun intended.”

Bucket Foot Bob said, “So that’s why I’m here. I’m looking for a community of like-minded people who will welcome me as one of their own. I used to be embarrassed by my bucket but now I’m rather proud of it. It’s part of who I am. It doesn’t dehumanize me. It humanizes me. It makes a statement that says, ‘Yes, I’m a slapstick klutz. But isn’t everyone?’ And so, my brothers and sisters, I hope you will accept me into your tribe.”

The facilitator said, “I move that we accept Bucket Foot Bob into our group! All in favor say aye!

Aye!

The vote was unanimous!

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Smart Ass Cripple's Disease

 

I need to hurry up and  become super famous. I’m talking about that rare Lou Gehrig level of fame.

It’s a daunting task but I think I can do it. I’m certainly motivated enough to try. Because there’s one  glaringly unachieved goal remaining on my bucket list. I want to be famous enough to have a disease named after me.

And I want to do it the hard way, like Lou Gehrig did. I feel like any old punk can take the shortcut by discovering a disease and then having it named after them, like Alzheimer or Parkinson. That seems like cheating.

But when a disease is named after you just because you have it, now that’s famous! But it has to be a certain kind of famous. Look at Michael J. Fox, for instance. He has Parkinson’s, but they still call it Parkinson’s. I’ve never heard about any groundswell to rename it Michael J. Fox’s disease. I guess he's not famous in the right way.

And what about Stephen Hawking ? He’s just as famous as Lou Gehrig, but nobody calls what made him crippled Stephen Hawking’s Disease. Maybe it’s a matter of first come first serve and  Lou Gehrig beat him to it. Or maybe you have to have the kind of fame that is free from all taint of infamy. Some people might consider Stephen Hawking to be a bit bawdy. Maybe someday something will happen  to sully Lou Gehrig’s good name. Like maybe it’ll come out that his hobby was kicking puppies. Then maybe he’ll be stripped of his disease and the title will be awarded to Stephen Hawking.

But I’m at the stage of life where a man thinks a lot about his legacy, and I really want mine to include having that which has made me crippled renamed Smart Ass Cripple’s Disease. I believe I’m crippled because of something called Spinal Muscular Atrophy aka SMA. I’ve never been officially diagnosed because it really doesn’t matter to me.  Knowing what makes me crippled doesn’t make me any less crippled.

So I’m halfway toward achieving my goal. I already have a disease. Now I just have to figure out how to get famous enough to have SMA renamed Smart Ass Cripple’s Disease. But that probably won’t ever happen. I’m too bawdy.

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Polio Fucking Awareness Month

 This month is Polio Fucking Awareness Month, as declared by me. I just think that considering how things have been going lately, we could all use a lot more fucking awareness about polio.

I mean, back about 60 years ago, I attended a public elementary school for cripples that was very exclusive. By that I mean that the kids who were students there were all very excluded from our neighborhood public schools.

We called some of our fellow students polios because that’s why they were crippled. They caught the polio virus.

The polios were all older than me because a few years earlier a polio vaccine was developed so no one caught polio anymore. And getting vaccinated was easy as hell. When I got mine, I just ate a sugar cube with a red spot on it. It was ridiculous. I couldn’t believe that’s all I had to do to keep from ever catching fucking polio.

I guess people don’t eat sugar cubes anymore, judging by the stuff I’ve been reading lately. I guess if you want to get vaccinated against fucking polio, you have to get a shot in the arm. But so fucking what? That sure beats the hell out of catching fucking polio.

But now I see where fucking polio is making a comeback. People in New York are catching fucking polio.

I can’t believe it! And it’s still the case that if you don’t ever want to get fucking polio, all you have to do is take the goddam vaccine!

I don’t know what the hell is going on. I hope this isn’t yet another example of the kind of shit that happens when there are a lot of douche bags running around who think not being vaccinated against anything makes them hip and cool, when all it does is put them in the asshole vanguard. And they think it’s their inalienable Constitutional right to cough in everyone else’s face like Typhoid Fucking Mary, free from government interference. I swear if anything is going to wipe out the whole human race it’ll be goddam libertarianism!

Maybe these morons will help polio make such a roaring comeback that a new strain will develop that will smash through the vaccination wall and send us all back to square fucking one. Then they’ll be real proud of themselves!

Okay but to be fair (which I really hate to do), the stuff I’ve been reading lately also says that some people don’t know whether or not they’re vaccinated against polio.

Fair enough. If you don’t remember eating a sugar cube or getting a shot in the arm, then go find out if you’ve ever received the polio vaccine. If you haven’t, then get it. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this is even up for debate!

I hope I’ve raised a little fucking awareness about fucking polio. Thank you for your time.

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A New Labor Day Tradition

 

 I had a mighty fine Labor Day. Rahnee and I took the dogs to the park and we also took along some snacks. The weather was overcast and a bit cool but still mostly summery.

And another mighty fine thing happened that day. I’ve developed a new Labor Day tradition. I try to make it a point every Labor Day weekend to ask someone under age 30 if they’ve ever heard of the Jerry Lewis Telethon.

I’m fortunate that most of the people I’ve hired to come into my home and get me out of bed and such are under age 30. So, I’m surrounded by people from that demographic more than most old farts like me.

And I’m delighted to report that lately they’ve all said that they’ve never heard of either Jerry Lewis or the telethon.

And I feel great satisfaction when I hear that because there was a time not long ago when the Jerry Lewis Telethon was synonymous with Labor Day weekend. 

(Warning: I’m about to briefly explain who Jerry Lewis and the telethon were. If you don’t know who they were it’s better that you never do. So, skip down a few paragraphs.) Jerry Lewis was a comedian from the 1940s whose signature schtick was doing an impression of the lamest stereotype of a spaz.

Somewhere along the line, Lewis got the idea that he wanted his legacy to be as a great humanitarian who raised millions of dollars for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Thus, he engaged in shameless pandering by hosting a 21-hour show every Labor Day weekend called the Jerry Lewis Telethon. In between cheesy, Vegasy acts, Lewis would plead for viewers to please call the number on the screen and pledge a donation to the MDA.

You’d think that would make people with muscular dystrophy, like me, very happy. But a lot of us were pissed off by it all. There were tons of reasons why the telethon reeked but suffice it to say that a big reason was that Lewis’ depiction of life as a cripple was as insultingly shallow as his spaz schtick. The telethon took the laziest approach of trying to make its audience believe that the typical cripple is as sad but extraordinarily brave perpetual child who hates being crippled and wants nothing else in life except to be cured. And we all worship Lewis and the MDA because they are our hope for being cured. But they can’t do it without the generous donations of people like you.

The telethon referred to people with muscular dystrophy as Jerry’s Kids. So, some of us formed a group called Jerry’s Orphans and on Labor Day weekends we protested around the country against the telethon. We got a lot of media attention and Lewis reacted with bitter hostility. I’m proud to say that MDA threatened to sue me if I didn’t shut up. I didn’t and they didn’t.

The Jerry Lewis Telethon is so long gone that younger generations don’t even know it ever existed. So, I guess Jerry’s Orphans won.

As we sat in the park with the dogs eating snacks, I said to Rahnee, “This sure beats protesting.”

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The Cripple Legacy of Rudolph the Red- Nosed Reindeer

 

Whenever I hear the song Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, I feel very conflicted. I never know what to make of Rudolph’s legacy as a cripple

Afterall, as the story goes, RRR was ostracized because he was considered to be a defective freak. All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games. Every cripple certainly knows how that feels.

But RRR refused to assimilate. He continued being the freak that he was and eventually he got the last laugh on that foggy Christmas Eve when Santa called upon him to save the day.

So  should I hold RRR up as a role model for little criplets? Is he an example of a proud cripple who took the risk of letting their freak flag fly? Or was he just another Tiny Tim?

This is the problem with the song. It doesn’t go into how RRR felt about being laughed at and called names and banished from the reindeer games. Maybe he said to the other reindeer, “Fuck you guys and your stupid reindeer games!” But maybe he sulked in his stall and watched longingly through the window, desperately wishing he wasn’t a freak so the other reindeer would accept him as their peer.

 The song needs another stanza that delves into RRR’s psyche. But the songwriter leaves all this stuff open to interpretation.

My guess is that if RRR could have assimilated, he definitely would have. If someone had offered him a chance to have his red nose surgically removed, he would have jumped all over it .

That would have drastically altered the trajectory of the song. On that foggy Christmas Eve, Santa would have been screwed and the sleigh would have been grounded . Either that or that or it would have crashed into a  mountainside near Buenos Aires. Either way, Christmas would be cancelled.

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On the Wussy Trail

 

I’ve seen motorized wheelchairs with tank tracks for tires. Apparently, somebody is manufacturing and marketing such a device.

This makes me think of two things:

1.      These wheelchair/tank hybrids  don’t seem very practical in the real world.  I’ve only seen cripples actually riding around in these things in sales promotional videos. Never in daily life. The tank tracks turn a wheelchair into a rugged, all-terrain vehicle. But hell, they also make it so wide that I couldn’t even get it through the front door of my home.

It’s intended for use only in the great outdoors. It gives cripples access to areas they can’t get to in an ordinary wheelchair. It empowers them to do stuff like go deer hunting

Now I like the great outdoors as much as any cripple. And I ‘m aware (sometimes painfully so) that my participation is often limited to the wussy trails, which are those trails in state parks and places like that which are wheelchair accessible. That means that they are probably paved and flat and short. The degree of difficulty is zero. Walking hikers look at them and guffaw.

But even if this indignation inspired me to get a wheelchair with tank tracks, I don’t know how I would transport it. It sure as hell won’t fit in my cripple van. So, I’d have to rent a U-Haul or something to take it anywhere.

2.     Have fun getting Medicaid to pay for it.   The wheelchair I’m riding around in cost more than $20,000. And it has regular tires. So, you figure a wheelchair with tank tracks must cost at least that much. And Medicaid makes you fight like hell if you want them to pay for a plain old wheelchair. First, they’ll approve you for a unicycle and then you have to get your doctor to write a long Dear Medicaid letter detailing why the other three wheels are “medically necessary.” And then Medicaid still turns you down again and again and makes you file about 15 appeals.

So, Medicaid sure as hell isn’t going to pay a cent for a wheelchair with tank tracks, even if you can find a doctor who will write a long Dear Medicaid letter detailing why tank tracks are “medically necessary."

So, anyone who buys one of those wheelchairs with tank tracks has to want to go deer hunting bad enough to cough up about $20,000 of their own money

I’ll stick to the wussy trail.  

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