There's a big buzz in Cripville about a story in the New York Post.
I've worked as a writer for a radio station. I've worked as an insurance agent. I still piddle around working as a book reviewer. The most money I ever made writing was, oh, $50 to $100 a hour, and that was one job in 15 years or so. It ain't nothing to see writing gigs paying ten-cents a word, or less.
I've been wasting my talent. I could be earning big bucks down in Orlando, and I'd be out of the cold weather and earning nice coin according to the Post.
A couple of gigs a week, and I could afford the new power-chair I want. And maybe replace my worn out Tempur-Pedic bed. Three gigs a week, and I'll be driving something newer than a 10-year old van.
The funny thing is there are a lot of folks out there getting their knickers in a knot over this. In fact, the Post reporter writes, "They are 1 percenters who are 100 percent despicable."
She needed something like this to remind her of Murphy's Golden Rule: "He who has the gold makes the rules?"
Where was she during the last presidential campaign? Or during the budget debate when there was an attempt to raise tax rates on the wealthy? Where does she stand on removing the cap on Social Security Tax?
As long as we're talking about good governance, I say this is a great employment incentive program. It may not move me up into the 1-percenter territory, but it will add more happy-happy to my lifestyle. Where can I sign up?
All this is funny and ironically coincidental. Last week we had a family dinner at a nice restaurant to celebrate Mother's Day. Among the attendees was the new semi-fiancee of my wife's nephew, a young fellow I don't see much. And we've never met the semi-fiancee.
As usual, when people encounter my wife and I, there's a bit of confused uneasiness because I'm bald, grey, and visibly older than my wife, who also happens to be an attractive woman. How'd that old crip score with the hot chick?
People may not say, but that's what they're thinking. And that's okay. In fact, perhaps it's not that coarse, but I, sensitive self-conscious soul that I am, understand the question floats about the ether.
"Where you parked?" asked someone who'd forgotten we'd recently changed vans. The parking lot, being Mother's Day, was extraordinarily crowded.
"There by the door," I said, "in the handicapped slot."
And so I looked at the new girl, the prospective new member of our somewhat dysfunctional tribe, and said, "That's the only reason I'm married to her, you know." pointing at my wife. "How else is an ugly, cripped-up dude like me going to get a woman, especially a hot-looking woman? It's that I came free with life time access to free parking close to every door."
My wife, after twenty some years, is used to this nonsense, my desire to disturb the equilibrium of those who don't know how to interact with crips, and so she looked at the girl and said, "And the shopping cart. Don't forget the automated shopping cart that will follow me around a store and back out to the parking lot."
Considering all that, it appears I am thoroughly qualified to work as a guide at Orlando.
Also, I'm quite personable, a good companion, interested in other people. I can talk to anyone, but I never try to dominate the conversation or repeat boring stories.
I don't swear, which is important if these 1-percenters are escorting their children. In fact, I like children. For a slight increase in the hourly rate, I'd be willing to add babysitting to the contract so that the mothers could stay poolside and swim in their margaritas.
I could probably even learn to speak with a New York accent so that I would appear a valid member of the family. At the very least, I would attempt to neutralize my slight southern accent. I live on protein bars and yogurt, and so I'm cheap to keep.
Can someone provide a telephone number? I'd like to know if the hourly rate is higher because I need a ventilator? Or maybe because I'm prone to heat stroke?