Misery Looks for Your Sofa Bed


Is such a good guest

Brings purple tulips

Dries the dishes

Leaves at 11

With a quick kiss


Hogs your weenies

Farts during the quiche

Wants more pie

It’s after 1

You’re in p.j.s’

He’s eyeballing

Your sofa bed

An Old Cripple’s Gratitude List

It was my birthday yesterday and I suddenly felt a surge of gratitude rising up from my left kishke. Of course today, I don’t feel it at all. But I still want to try to summon it up because I want to have it on paper for all the times that I don’t feel any gratitude for anything. Also, this is for people who think that I’m completely cynical and that I have a jaundiced view on life. Okay, so here’s my cripple gratitude list.

I am grateful that at 59 and being a decrepit cripple that I could have a new family and an incredible baby and the two best mommies in the world.

I am grateful that I still have all my marbles and I’m not locked up somewhere.

I am grateful that I found Celexa 15 years ago that saved me from my own mind, so I don’t feel like bashing in my head every five minutes (even though it reduced my libido by 65%).

I am grateful for my addiction to the stock market, even if it cost me a million dollars.

I am grateful to be in the holy land; to be with my people and every day to get to see how Hitler completely failed.

I am grateful that my sister made aliyah 34 years ago and brought my parents over, so that I would wind up here too and we would all be together.

I am grateful that I’m not in a 40 year old nightmare of a marriage.

I am grateful to be a cripple, so I stand out in any crowd and get a lot of attention.

I am grateful that I am a Jew and not a goy, thereby giving a big middle finger to the other seven billion people in the world.

I am grateful to live to see YouPorn; thousands and thousands of porno movies for free without having to masturbate in a skanky movie theater with a hundred other perverts.

I am grateful for music: Jimmy, Neil, John, Billie, Miles, Mick, Bach, and Satie.

I am grateful that I get poems plopped into my head and that I have the ability to polish them.

I am grateful for my sense of humor and that I can make even myself laugh.

I am grateful for women. Even if I haven’t had sex in seven years, I can still look at them.

I am grateful for all my people who not only fought and died and built this land for me, but actually welcome me with open arms to live here.

I am grateful that, after 40 years of not finding an outlet for my yidishkeit, I found my Chabad shul that gives me aliyahs with a smile, even though they know I’m an apikoyres (non-believer).

I am grateful for the Shuk, where I feel the most free and alive, and where there are at least seven different vendors who I can scream “fuck you” to and who will answer back with a big smile, “Fuck you too Morris!”

I am grateful for the cucumbers here. It turns out, I didn’t know what a cucumber tasted like.

I am grateful for my ten nieces and nephews and to have gotten a chance to tell them things that no one else would tell them and to listen to them tell me things that they couldn’t tell anyone else.

I am grateful to Mark Zuckerberg. I can post my poems and stupid videos and get 20 likes in two hours. Thank you Mark.

I am grateful for my 70 shekel bidet. It helps me not only clean myself, but actually expedites matters.

I am grateful for my new micro-enemas, the tips of which are one quarter the size of the old, Fleet enemas. I am proud to say that they are a product of Israel.

I am grateful that I haven’t killed or maimed anyone with my wheelchair in any of my tremendous outbursts of anger.

I am grateful that my parents are dead and I don’t have to worry about them anymore. They can’t give me any grief about yidishkeit.

I am grateful for my catheter and pee pee bag, so I don’t have to wake-up my caretaker. I get to pee in my bed two or three times a night without getting wet.

I am eternally grateful for Snickers.

I Get By With A Little Help From My (5 Plastic) Friends

I know Thanksgiving is over, but my non-plastic assistant wasn’t here on Thanksgiving, so I’m writing this now. I want to give thanks to five plastic objects, without which, my life as a semi-independent cripple would be nearly impossible.

  1. My nearest and dearest, Frank bidet.Who else would do for me what Mr. Frank would do? He sits behind my asshole and spritzes water up it, for sometimes over an hour. He not only cleans my ass, and makes my asshole completely shit-free, but with his immense water pressure and tireless efforts, he forces out my kaki, no matter how compacted. Day after day, week after week, not even my mother (God bless her soul) would do this for me.
  2. My wife, Dr. Gav (model 230 electric back massager). Because my crippled hands are completely clenched closed and I can’t pull my pud. Because no Jewish girl ever laid a hand on me, let alone gave me a hand job. Because I refuse to see prostitutes anymore. So thank God I found my sweetheart. She very willingly allows me to tape her onto my arm, and very diligently rubs me the right way. This angel of mine doesn’t even mind that I watch dirty, disgusting porno of a lesbian massage scene with a happy ending. All she asks for in return, is a three hour charge.
  3. Manny, a wonderful guy who lets me sit on him and takes me anywhere I want to go. It’s my wheelchair. I love him so much that I would not even like to walk again. Without him, I would have to have Kumara (my overweight caretaker) piggyback me around in the 95 degree heat.
  4. Cathy the catheter stays up the whole night waiting for me to pee. She never kvetches.  She doesn’t even mind being tied up with medical tape. Before her, I had to call Kumara two or three times a night. He was just about ready to cut my throat. Now I’m hooked up and Cathy has her wonderful assistant, the 1500 milliliter urine bag backing her up. How reassuring to have her around me all night.
  5. Straw Man, my super hero, be he ever so humble. With him, I can drink anything; hot or cold, thick or thin, fast or slow. He comes with me everywhere: home, cafes, Bar Mitzvahs, even remote cemeteries. He can handle it. He prevents public humiliation by delivering an even flow so I don’t spit out my carrot orange juice into the cleavage of the nursing mother sitting next to me.

To think that 40 or 50 years ago, before the great plastic age, none of my homeys even existed. I’m such a lucky fucking cripple.