Lame Talkin’

So, yesterday ‘Nonymous leaves a comment suggesting I’m insensitive to disabled people., just because I poked fun at two radio performers losing their senses.  Which, given the imbeciles involved here, their senses aren’t even in question.

Well, balls.  I suppose he (or she) never read my remarks on NPR’s frog-throated Diane Rehm, either.

In fucking sensitive!

Anyway, stung, I will share with you a very touching and personal moment from my distant past involving cripples disabled people; a formative event, that will transform ‘Nonymous’ and any others’ view on my attitudes in this sensitive area of human relationships.

I’m a youngster, still in school, with raging hormones, shit for brains, and 100% immortal.  No date, either, but a couple of “good friends” set me up for Saturday night.  “She’s a doll,” they tell me.  “You’ll love her.”

It was just starting to dawn on me back then how my “friends” had learned to hate me like poison.  Not until I arrive at her house and the door opens do I learn she’s a mutant.  About 5 feet high on her crutches.  A pair of legs like she tried to tap dance a live land mine to death.

This was a long time ago, decades before most of society understood that disabled people weren’t all spastics and retards.  Back then, the general attitude was “Hide The Handicapped.”  So this was something of a shock.

But really, I was okay with this.  In fact, being the sort of twisted contrarian I am, I sort of got off on it.  And she was cool!  And, except for the freakish appendages hanging off her torso, kind of cute!  Not a redhead, but back then I didn’t know I shared that fatal fetish with the rest of my perverted Hungarian family.

Well, ice skating is out of the question, so we find ourselves going to some teenage function, having something to eat, bumping into (!!) some friends, and before I knew it, the night gets late.  As we’re heading toward my 1965 Mercury Comet Caliente she I point out the moon is full.  She nods.

“Wanna see something real special under a full moon?” she asks.

Sure, I say.  Of course.  I’m young, stupid, and hormonal.

We clamber into my wheels and she directs me to a lovely arboretum several miles from her home.  It’s closed, but not fenced, so in we drive, and, on her instructions, park.

“You’ll have to carry me,” she says.  “It’s hard to get to.  But it’s worth it.”

So of course I do.  We head up a hill and toward a grove of centuries-old trees overlooking a pond.  She directs me to an area at the extreme end of the park, and tells me to set her down and prop her up against the fence.  I do, then join her on the soft, fragrant grass.   She smiles at me, then points up, through the trees, and down, at the pond.

It was amazing.  The moon’s position was such that it was completely reflected in the pond, which was lit up in  such a way that a zillion red, yellow, and gold fish could be seen actively churning the waters, answered by an equal number of blinking fireflies hovered like groupies.  Mesmerizing.  Primeval.  Stoned, we stared for a while, until I became aware she was looking at me, not the water.

Well, insofar as I’m a gentleman I’ll spare the details, but let’s just say that bobo got himself his very first good old-fashioned honking.  And when the Lord looked down on his crippled child he porn-nounced it good.  And the evening and the morning were the first day.  Ooooh.  Aaah.

I get her home – we’re late — and the house is a little too well lit.  Oh, shit.  When I walk her to the door it opens, and there’s Dad.  He bids (commands) we enter, and after my date and I rush our thanks and good-nights, Dad asks me to stay a moment when she stumps off to bed.

Dad sizes me up.   I figure I’m as dead as Jimmy Hoffa.

“Look,” he finally says.  “I just want to say Thanks for taking my daughter out and giving her a good time.”

What?  Am I still stoned?

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a Gammons – big money back then.  “I want you to take this,” he says, “because you’re obviously a helluva guy, and I appreciate it.”

I find it in me to protest, if weakly.  Don’t pay me $20 to take her out – and leave aside what a handicapped BJ gets on the open market – that kind of makes her a prostitute, y’know?  I mean, I did it because I wanted to, and maybe we’ll do it again…..

“Well, that’s between you and her,” he laughs.  “But I want this one to be on me.  You saved me a lot of time and effort, and I want to make it right.”

Huh?

“Oh, yeah,” he says.  “Most guys just leave her hanging on the fence.”

So don’t tell me anything about insensitivity to disabled people, ‘Nonymous, you ignorant cretin.  I know my gimps, spazzes, cripples, ‘tards, and mutants as well as anybody.  Come on by and I’ll  play you my CD with the uninhibited moans and shrieks from deaf women I’ve brought to multiple orgasm – I’m still trying to make ring-tones out of some of them.  I HEART disabled people!!

Hope I cleared that up.  Have a great weekend, everybody.