Park It

For those of you who haven’t ever read the disclaimer at the top of my blog page, please do so. If you indeed are easily offended you can do one of two things, don’t read this, or get a thicker skin. Stop taking everything so seriously even though this blog may contain some serious topics. With that said, proceed at your own risk, despite the fact that reading really doesn’t involve any risk at all when you think about it.

I own a “Handicapped Parking Sticker,” although it doesn’t stick to anything. Today they’re called “Disabled Parking Placards.” What the hell the difference is certainly beats the shit out of me. I have always been of the mind that handicapped describes my affliction accurately. I am not “disabled,” like a car that is temporarily broken down on the side of the road. Nor am I “physically challenged;” I have enough challenges in my life. I don’t know why people just didn’t leave well enough alone. No, they had to go and get all politically correct. Is it politically correct to call them assholes with way too much time on their hands? Aren’t there enough other more important causes they could devote their time to? I would also guess that none of these well meaning ying-yangs that insist on using these euphemisms are handicapped themselves, unless you consider their misguided intentions.

I never asked for anyone to represent me anywhere at any time. I have never benefited from any form of legislation that’s been passed concerning the handicapped. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried on numerous occasions to see if I could take advantage of all the wonderful things put forth legislatively to no avail. I must not be the right kind of handicapped. The one thing that I cannot be denied due to my physical condition is a “Handicapped Parking Sticker.” My leg has been cut off. This is a permanent condition. Contrary to what Social Security Disability seems to think, it will not grow back.

Some of you may be asking yourselves why I didn’t just get a “Handicapped License Plate?” Well selves, ask no more. There are two main reasons. First, vehicles with handicapped plates seem to be the worst drivers. I took note of this phenomenon early on after attaining handicapped status. I didn’t want other driver’s to “motherfucker” me as I did to those driver’s possessing handicapped tags when they neglected to adhere to the rules of the road. After witnessing the constant and flagrant violations by handicapped tagged vehicles, I opted for the sticker.

Second, I had difficulty adjusting to my new handicapped status. To me, “handicapped” meant breathing tubes, para-, or quadriplegic, blind, and the folks who “had it really bad.” I did not want to include myself with that group. I didn’t want to go around advertising I had some sort of affliction serious enough to warrant a handicapped tag. With a sticker, it would always be there if I ever needed it.

And when the need did arise, I invariably parked in a space next to someone who was in a really bad way, making me feel very guilty I had the nerve to park there with only a severed leg. How dare I! For many years that’s exactly how it went. If there were two handicapped spots available, I’d park in one, and the other would have someone being unloaded from a van using a motorized wheelchair, sometimes wearing a bib; shame on me. Every now and again a centenarian with a pacemaker or something would park next to me, forcing me to explain what entitled me to park there since I was not old nor wheelchair bound. That was it, they were the two groups that used handicapped spots. Not some twenty (and later thirty) something who walks with a slight limp. And then everything changed.

By the time I became a fortysomething, handicapped parking permits were being handed out like strip club promotional flyers. Everybody was getting them. They were like smartphones. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever envision handicapped parking placards to be the next “must have” in order to keep up with those assholes the Jones’.

These schmucks parade around with their handicapped placards dangling from their rearview mirrors like some badge of honor, even though it clearly states on both sides of the permit “REMOVE BEFORE DRIVING VEHICLE.” I guess all the energy it would take to bring it down from above the visor and then put it back again is too exhausting. Why should they have to follows the instructions, they’re handicapped for Christ’s sake! I think I may know why the hanging and removing of the placard may be too taxing.

No longer am I joined in the handicapped spaces by wheelchair bound individuals or the geriatric crowd. People of all ages, but mainly one size began showing up in droves, and they were parking their droves in handicapped spots. They had back problems, heart issues, diabetes, bad backs, knee replacements, strained scrotums, gout, bad hair transplants. You name it these folks “suffered” from it. So bad in fact, that walking became nearly impossible, unless it meant walking around the mall, walking through Wal-Mart, walking the entire length of South Beach. As long as there was a handicapped spot available, they were able to resume some semblance of a normal life. Thank goodness!

I noticed that there seemed to be a trait many of these incapacitated individuals shared; they were fat. I don’t mean overweight, I mean fucking fat. Where I felt a certain amount of shame for having to use a handicapped placard, these folks relish the idea. They convinced some doctor that all their ills could be remedied if they only had a handicapped parking sticker.

Did the doctor’s tell them they wouldn’t have needed knee replacement surgery had they lost weight; nope. Did the doctor’s tell them they wouldn’t have such back problems if they only lost some weight; nope. Did the doctor’s tell them their diabetes was brought about by their poor diet; nope. Did the doctor’s tell them their heart problems stem from lugging around virtually another person; nope. The doctor’s give them who knows how many prescriptions, signed the form for the handicapped placard, and sends the fat shits on their way. Ironic that these individuals are the one’s who need exercise, yet the only exercise they’d get would be walking to and fro if they had to park further away. The only handicap they really have is the inability to keep food out of their mouths.

Okay, so some obesity is hereditary. But read the facts and figures. Look at how fat people tax the health care system. And now they want preferential parking. How could I possibly be so inconsiderate by losing a limb and not yielding to these poor souls when it comes to parking?

For years I was so self-conscious about my artificial limb that I used to keep the apparatus covered with fake skin and a knee brace. However, I got sick of having to explain to some insensitive, self-righteous douchebag who’d call me out for parking in a handicapped spot. Short of putting a stump up their ass, I tried to be pleasant about it, or if they persisted, I’d tell them to mind their own fucking business.
Today, after coming to grips with my appearance, I leave the mechanism exposed. That way I don’t have to explain myself any longer. Nevertheless, I still get the stink-eye from those who feel they are more entitled to the space than I.

Unfortunately, fat folks tend to feel much better about themselves. Maybe I’m being too quick to judge. An obese female in a shorts and belly shirt is most definitely a handicap.