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Yee! Things have improved dramatically since my last scribbling. No, I haven't unlocked the secret to cloning Eddie Cahill, right down to his sexy, sexy brains, nor have I bought that manse in Majorca, but life has gone on.
Oh, flist, those of you who get a dirtybadwrong tingle in your girl parts from my rants might have to proceed to the nearest bathroom stall and lock the door. I took the rare step of going out for pleasure twice in one week, and o, the nitwits and nabobs I did meet.
In modern buses, thelimper cargo hold disabled patron seating area is in the front and consists of two pairs of adjacent seats that fold up to accommodate even those wheelchairs whose bloodlines boast Sherman tanks and Peterbilt big rigs. Standard procedure dictates that when a limper boards, the driver asks anyone occupying those seats to move until the roller is secured, at which time, they can resume their seat if it wasn't taken by the chair. Most smart drivers--and patrons with firing synapses, for that matter--know to clear the adjacent seats even if they won't be needed so that the roller or or their caretaker can maneuver into the slot without risk of hurting anyone. People seem oddly attached to their feet and toes, for example.
Well, yesterday, the driver wasn't smart enough to clear the surrounding seats, so when I boarded the bus, a living descendant of Jabba the Hutt sat stolidly in the adjacent seat, purse clutched in her puffy hand as though it contained the Constitution, a Chippendale's calendar, a butterfly vibrator with cunnilingus action, and the secret recipe for Bush's baked beans. I waited to see if she would move once she realized what was about to happen. She didn't. She just stared at me, clad in the red cotton armor of her Pizza Hut uniform.
Well, all right. I'm not about to cause a scene because I know damn well how that will turn out. Jabba will proceed merrily on her way to the Pizza Hutt, and Roomie and I will be stranded in the bus plaza, receiving a lecture about proper etiquette for uppity cripples who don't know their place bus riders.
So, Roomie starts to maneuver me into the slot. This requires a 180-degree turn from rear to front in a very confined space. At 90 degrees, Jabba's knees ram Roomie's ass, and my foot snags on the metal hinge of the folded seat and starts to twist. Oh, pain. Roomie's ass is pinned in place by Jabba's knees, and Jabba is sighing melodramatically. Meanwhile, my ankle continues to twist. Finally, Roomie uses his ass as a battering ram and creates enough space to free my tortured ankle.
I finally wedge into the space and get strapped down like a shipment of Ab Lounges bound for Boise. My ankle is throbbing. Jabba glares at me in baleful incomprehension, miffed, no doubt, that her left ass cheek can no longer occupy a third of the bus.
Look, I'm not sorry that my need for public transport and my right to use it exists. Until such time as Congress restricts the use of public transportation to those with perfect bodies, I'm going to use it, and frankly, I'm surprised that my patronage offends you. After all, I should think that my use of a bus to leave the house would be encouraged, since, I don't know, I might've been going to work and "earning my keep" instead of mooching off welfare and "living the high life" on that check that goes so far in 2008. I wasn't; I was shopping for food and a book, but the point remains that if you wish me to pull my own weight, then you cannot expect me to stay locked inside my house and pull that weight around the confines of my tiny apartment, especially not when it isn't even afforded the merest scrap of human courtesy.
If I'm going to be ridiculed and scorned for making the effort to leave the house, then there is no reason for me to do so. I did not sign up to be the poster girl for the Brave Little Toaster, and I will happily oblige you by staying inside my house and living off my late father's military death benefits and the high-rolling government check that lets me roll on the pimpin' city buses.
The bottom line is simple: My disability will always, always inconvenience me more that it ever inconveniences you, so shut the fuck up, stop whining and displaying your festering knob of abled entitlement, and stand up until the driver is finished strapping me down like luggage on a Volvo ski rack. It's not my fault that I have CP, but it is your fault that you're a lazy fatass who wouldn't put the fork down, and I'm tired of taking on your blame because I have the nerve to exist, you enormous, doughy fucktart.
Oh, but there was bonus stupidity ahead. When I disembarked and went to my destination, the Macaroni Grill, I was seated by a pencil-chewing hostess who thought it a good idea to seat me between other tables so my chair "wouldn't block the aisle or impede other guests." Yes, because I love being penned in by forty-five chairs from the sides and flank, and those other guests adore having to squash themselves against the tables, or, God forbid, get up so that I can leave.
Why not seat me at a table recessed from the aisle so that I can sit with my back to the open space and the servers can move through the aisle with impunity? I know it works because I've done it 9 million times, including several times at your restaurant. You tongue-chewing, feces-sniffing moron.
But the day was pleasant in spite of the unrelenting assault of full-frontal boobery. I ate twice, bought steak and ground beef for the next few days, and finally got my hands on a copy of The Verve Pipe's "The Freshman", which I've been wanting for ten years. I also bought a George Lopez stand-up DVD, a Rammstein CD, and Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things.
And when I dragged home at 8PM, WGN was showing WKRP in Cincinnati reruns. I had never watched this show before, but when July rolls around, I will buy the DVDs. I haven't laughed so hard at a TV show in ages. MADE of WIN.
So, yeah, it's been a good few days.
Oh, flist, those of you who get a dirtybadwrong tingle in your girl parts from my rants might have to proceed to the nearest bathroom stall and lock the door. I took the rare step of going out for pleasure twice in one week, and o, the nitwits and nabobs I did meet.
In modern buses, the
Well, yesterday, the driver wasn't smart enough to clear the surrounding seats, so when I boarded the bus, a living descendant of Jabba the Hutt sat stolidly in the adjacent seat, purse clutched in her puffy hand as though it contained the Constitution, a Chippendale's calendar, a butterfly vibrator with cunnilingus action, and the secret recipe for Bush's baked beans. I waited to see if she would move once she realized what was about to happen. She didn't. She just stared at me, clad in the red cotton armor of her Pizza Hut uniform.
Well, all right. I'm not about to cause a scene because I know damn well how that will turn out. Jabba will proceed merrily on her way to the Pizza Hut
So, Roomie starts to maneuver me into the slot. This requires a 180-degree turn from rear to front in a very confined space. At 90 degrees, Jabba's knees ram Roomie's ass, and my foot snags on the metal hinge of the folded seat and starts to twist. Oh, pain. Roomie's ass is pinned in place by Jabba's knees, and Jabba is sighing melodramatically. Meanwhile, my ankle continues to twist. Finally, Roomie uses his ass as a battering ram and creates enough space to free my tortured ankle.
I finally wedge into the space and get strapped down like a shipment of Ab Lounges bound for Boise. My ankle is throbbing. Jabba glares at me in baleful incomprehension, miffed, no doubt, that her left ass cheek can no longer occupy a third of the bus.
Look, I'm not sorry that my need for public transport and my right to use it exists. Until such time as Congress restricts the use of public transportation to those with perfect bodies, I'm going to use it, and frankly, I'm surprised that my patronage offends you. After all, I should think that my use of a bus to leave the house would be encouraged, since, I don't know, I might've been going to work and "earning my keep" instead of mooching off welfare and "living the high life" on that check that goes so far in 2008. I wasn't; I was shopping for food and a book, but the point remains that if you wish me to pull my own weight, then you cannot expect me to stay locked inside my house and pull that weight around the confines of my tiny apartment, especially not when it isn't even afforded the merest scrap of human courtesy.
If I'm going to be ridiculed and scorned for making the effort to leave the house, then there is no reason for me to do so. I did not sign up to be the poster girl for the Brave Little Toaster, and I will happily oblige you by staying inside my house and living off my late father's military death benefits and the high-rolling government check that lets me roll on the pimpin' city buses.
The bottom line is simple: My disability will always, always inconvenience me more that it ever inconveniences you, so shut the fuck up, stop whining and displaying your festering knob of abled entitlement, and stand up until the driver is finished strapping me down like luggage on a Volvo ski rack. It's not my fault that I have CP, but it is your fault that you're a lazy fatass who wouldn't put the fork down, and I'm tired of taking on your blame because I have the nerve to exist, you enormous, doughy fucktart.
Oh, but there was bonus stupidity ahead. When I disembarked and went to my destination, the Macaroni Grill, I was seated by a pencil-chewing hostess who thought it a good idea to seat me between other tables so my chair "wouldn't block the aisle or impede other guests." Yes, because I love being penned in by forty-five chairs from the sides and flank, and those other guests adore having to squash themselves against the tables, or, God forbid, get up so that I can leave.
Why not seat me at a table recessed from the aisle so that I can sit with my back to the open space and the servers can move through the aisle with impunity? I know it works because I've done it 9 million times, including several times at your restaurant. You tongue-chewing, feces-sniffing moron.
But the day was pleasant in spite of the unrelenting assault of full-frontal boobery. I ate twice, bought steak and ground beef for the next few days, and finally got my hands on a copy of The Verve Pipe's "The Freshman", which I've been wanting for ten years. I also bought a George Lopez stand-up DVD, a Rammstein CD, and Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things.
And when I dragged home at 8PM, WGN was showing WKRP in Cincinnati reruns. I had never watched this show before, but when July rolls around, I will buy the DVDs. I haven't laughed so hard at a TV show in ages. MADE of WIN.
So, yeah, it's been a good few days.
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