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.