Cripple Jokes

by Fred

I can tell cripple jokes, now, since I found out this month that I have asthma. For real! I have an inhaler and a special little bong attachment and everything. It’s so exciting. I used to think that guys with asthma couldn’t do he-man athletic stuff, but one of my sparring partners has asthma. In fact, he nearly knocked me out one night. I was wearing headgear, and he was wearing gloves. So, anyway. I know at least one guy with asthma who can probably kill me with his bare hands. That’s pretty cool.

By the way, that guy doesn’t fight in tournaments anymore. The hand he smacked me with has carpal tunnel syndrome from (guess what?) a computer mouse. He’s an IT nerd for some huge national railroad. I’ve made arrangements with my friends in class to remind me not to give him any shit about his carpal tunnel.

So. Cripple jokes. I learned the beauty of cripple jokes over the last ten years volunteering downtown at a human rights organization. We were at a meeting down there this week and kidding around before the meeting started when Tessa cracked a joke that reminded me of this indescribable beauty. The director of the organization was talking about his wife raising hell with him doing his tax returns. She would yell from her upstairs office, and he would yell back. Then she would yell something else and he would yell back. Finally Tessa goes, “There’s a reason why she went upstairs to do your taxes.” I forgot to mention that the director uses a scooter. I suck at telling jokes. That’s another disability I have.

Anyway, all that reminded me of the best cripple joke I ever heard. And I was there to watch it happen. Completely original. Solid gold. It was at the same company about five years ago. I was shooting the shit in my office with another volunteer. All us volunteers had our own offices. They didn’t pay us, but they gave us office space. Desks. Computers. Internet. The works. We did a fair amount of research. Anyway, this woman I’m talking to has multiple sclerosis. That’s important. We were discussing the different races we like to have sex with. That’s important too. I was going on about how I can speak Spanish and all, but I wanted to learn Arabic because I prefer having sex with Middle Eastern women. I was probably just showing off because the woman I was talking to is quite Jewish. Has a Jewish Bible and everything. She’s all about how she likes black guys, probably trying to make my Swedish/Irish ass jealous.

Okay. Got the picture? Then this other volunteer comes in. He’s always coming in my office borrowing five bucks for cigarettes, and I’m always giving it to him because I get a hard-on from doing that. But multiple-sclerosis-lady and I are deeply engrossed, so I ignore him. We keep talking. We’re all deep into the various intricacies of the American Indian race and . . .

Wait, before I screw this up, let me explain that the guy who wanted cigarette money didn’t have any legs. He passed out on a railroad track and got run over by a train that chopped off his fucking legs. Okay? Yeah, he was using a scooter.

K?

All right. So, MS-lady and I go on for a little while about the different races we prefer to fuck, when Legless Man gets impatient and chimes in. He goes, “I just like to stay with my own kind.”

With the timing of a Mozart concerto, MS-lady goes, “You mean the kind with no legs!”

Cruel! I started laughing so hard that my large intestine nearly shot down into my scrotum.

After the dust cleared, I gave Legless Man five bucks for cigarettes. Of course! He might be a racist asshole, but we all gotta smoke. Right? And he will die twenty years sooner if I help him out. Right?

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