Wheelchair Humor: Volume I

Since I was 17, I've used a wheelchair. All credit goes to a rare neuromuscular disease! There you go, that's all the background you need on me...

Well, before going to college (pop. 35,000+), I was probably under the naïve impression that nearly every person intellectually marinates their opinions and actions before spewing them out. This was undoubtedly due to me (A) Coming from a class of one for the last 6 years (Home schooled), (B) Not having cable TV, and (C) Being stupid (I don't think anyone becomes un-stupid with age, they just learn to hide it better).

*****Cue 1^st Story *****

In college, I went door-to-door in my power wheelchair for one of those precious group projects for a marketing research class. One of the people I surveyed in person (I was by myself. Group project = The person who wants a good grade does most of the work) was a lady probably in her late 70's. At the beginning of the survey I told her that all respondents had a chance to win a gift card to the local shopping mall. She then asked that if she won, could she give the gift card to someone else. I told her that she could do whatever she wanted to with the card. "Can I give it to you?" she asked. Curious, I replied "Why would you give it to me?" "Because," she informed me, "you're a cripple."

*****ThunderWheels (2^nd Story)*****

Whenever I finish reading every square-inch of the latest on AssociatedContent.com, and if those wonderful TV execs, in their infinite wisdom, decide to subject me to an According to Jim marathon or an Everybody Loves Raymond rerun that is airing for the 2,080^th time, I grace the local YMCA with my presence. It's my pursuit to develop the sculpted physique of a Greek god (I figure I should be there by the end of this month. Isn't there a wheelchair-rolling 5'9", 136 pound Greek god born in Lafayette, Louisiana?).

As I was resting from doing my usual 10 sets of 325 lbs. on the bench, a lady I've never met came up to me. I can spot those people a mile away ---- you brothers and sisters out there in wheelies know the kind of person I'm talking about. They're the ones who, after casting glances at you for the last 5 minutes and coming to the realization that they have no idea why that guy with that perfectly sculpted physique of a Greek god uses a wheelchair, absolutely must find out why you're mobile-broken so that they can sleep tonight.

So she approached me and, with a tone that mothers would speak to their 10-year-olds and with a volume you would use when good 'ole Rocky decides to use your bed post as a urinal, comments how she has seen me at the gym before. Without any semblance of segue or even knowing my name (two common characteristics for these kind), she quizzed me to find the dastardly truth to why I use a wheelchair. After explaining to her while fake smiling (I try not to punish people for being ignorant or having absolutely no self-awareness to how they are coming across) that I was born with a genetic disease called Friedreich's Ataxia that causes me to be off balance and uncoordinated, she asked if I have any siblings. "I have a younger sister" I said. "So, does she have it?" "Yes ma'am" I replied. At this point, I'm sure she probably could blame that no social-awareness thing for how she came off. But this is how it was ---- Immediately she let out what came across as a elated-induced yelp and exclaimed, "So your Momma had two kids in wheelchairs!?" But there's more...

"That must be hard" she expressed, as if she was delivering some sort of keen observation that deserved to be chronicled right after Solomon's Proverbs. "Well", I said, "my sister and I have really supportive friends and great parents." Then she asked if my parents were still together. "Yes, ma'am, they've been married for 28 years" I responded. And then to cap off her delightful little conversation, she enthusiastically proclaimed "So your Daddy stuck around even after ya'll were born like that!" Oi...

I know you other toebreakers out there have plenty of funny wheelchair stories. So take a break from your MySpace page and tell me your story at toebreaker@gmail.com I'm trusting that you'll get pleasure out of seeing your edited story published. So I don't pay you. I'm broke anyway.