Mike Ervin, longtime contributing writer to The Progressive, has just published a new collection, Smart Ass Cripple’s Little Chartreuse Book. As Mike reminds us, “It still has that new Smart Ass Cripple book smell.” Ervin is the author of two prior collections, Smart Ass Cripple's Little Red Book (2011) and Smart-Ass Cripple’s Little Yellow Book (2012). Enjoy these three short essays from the book.
A Letter from the Department of Human Services
A letter arrived with a return address of the Department of Human Services. My heart sank, as it always does when a letter arrives with a return address of the Department of Human Services.
Here’s how it feels: Did you ever get a letter from the IRS? Your heart sinks and you’re afraid to open the envelope, right? Because you automatically assume that whatever the IRS wants from you, it ain’t good. Because the IRS never writes just to say, “Thank you for paying your taxes. You are such a wonderful citizen. We wish we had 50 million more just like you.” It’s the same with the Department of Human Services. They never write just to say, “We’re having a wonderful time in Barbados. Wish you were here.”
The Department of Human Services pays the wages of the members of my pit crew. Those are the guys I hire to drag my ass in and out of bed, lift me onto the crapper, do my laundry, etc. Maybe this letter was to inform me that in order to remain eligible, I will now have to be piss tested. A lot of people have to take a piss test in order to avail themselves of certain public services.
Let me rephrase that. A lot of POOR people have to take a piss test in order to avail themselves of certain public services, such as people who live in public housing. Rich people never have to take a piss test. And rich people avail themselves of public services as much as anyone. Every time rich people drive down a public street or flush the damn toilet they are availing themselves of public services.
Or maybe the Department of Human Services was writing to inform me that I broke one of their rules. It’s easy enough for them to spy on me. These days there are drones that are the size of a fruit fly. That’s why whenever I see a fruit fly in my house I smash it with a hammer and then burn it and then flush the ashes down the toilet. You can’t be too careful. Maybe a spy drone saw it when one of my pit crew guys clipped my nails.
A home health aide once told me she wasn’t allowed to clip nails because that’s a “medical task” to be performed by a nurse. Another home health aide told me she couldn’t put a pill in my mouth for the same reason. So maybe a Department of Human Services spy drone caught one of my pit crew guys putting a pill in my mouth and the letter says I am no longer eligible for services because I broke a rule so now I’ll soon be homeless and friendless and penniless and I’ll freeze to death under a bridge.
After a couple days, I got up the guts to open the envelope. Enclosed with the letter was something that looked like a quiz or something—a list of multiple choice questions. “In order to better serve you,” the letter said, “please complete and return this customer satisfaction survey.”
What the fuck, Department of Human Services! Why do you go around scaring the hell out of people like that? As I read the letter, I bet they watched me through their fruit fly spy drone and laughed their asses off at the look on my face.
Profiles in Moderation
So I told my doctor I can’t fall asleep at night.
And my doctor said, “Why not?”
And I said, “It’s those damn lefty political magazines. I read them every night on the crapper just before I go to bed. I read about how the evil guys are screwing us all over and I get all worked up and I can’t fall asleep.”
So my doc said, “Well then don’t read those lefty political magazines.” He told me I had to go cold turkey. Don’t agitate the brain right before bed. Shut it down completely. So he gave me a prescription for glamour magazines.
But a few days later I went back to my doc and I said, “I still can’t sleep at night. When I read the lefty political magazines, I go to bed all worked up knowing how the evil guys are screwing us over. But when I read the glamour magazines, I go to bed all worked up wondering how the evil guys are screwing us over behind my back while I’m reading glamour magazines. Ignorance is bliss until you get blindsided.”
So my doc said since cold turkey didn’t work, there was only one course of action left to pursue: political moderation.
Those were the words I most dreaded hearing coming from my doctor’s lips. If there’s one thing that agitates me worse than the evil guys screwing us over, it’s the tepid moderates. They will fight oppression by any means allowable within the rules of proper polite political discourse.
A moderate witnessing a street mugging will immediately intervene and attempt to negotiate a compromise. “Let’s see now, the muggee has $100 so how about if you, Mr. Mugger, keep $75 and donate $25 to the charity of the muggee’s choice? And in return the muggee will sign a waiver releasing you from all further responsibility.”
I said to my doc, ”If I become a moderate, what political magazines can I read?”
My doc pondered that question and then he shrugged and said, “You can listen to NPR.”
The prospect of becoming a moderate was so depressing I still couldn’t sleep at night. After all, I thought, there are no great tales in the history books of the brave deeds of bold moderates. But I was surprised and encouraged to learn how much moderates have helped shape human history. For example, I did not know that czarist Russia in the 16th Century had a moderate ruler named Peter the Mediocre.
And I found a new political kinship among active and committed moderates who are evangelists for the gospel of pragmatism. They’ve formed an organization called Passionate Moderates of America. Their motto is, “Justice for All, Incrementally!” They even have a youth wing called the Young Moderistas.
I was really inspired when I attended their signature event, their annual Picnic Against Injustice. Passionate moderates from around the world express their displeasure with the brutal inequities inherent in modern society by gathering in a meadow and bringing potluck dishes. This is where they reaffirm their commitment to take action.
The festivities began with a prayer. The minister said, “We thank you for this bounty, Oh Father, or Mother, or perhaps even gender-neutral entity that could also be merely a metaphorical concept used to provide a framework for morality. We pray that when we moderates confront those who wallow in greed and profit from human misery, you will give us the strength to tell them firmly that we agree to disagree.”
And then, one by one, the leaders of the moderate movement climbed up on the soapbox and invigorated the base. “First and foremost, we believe in tolerance,” said one. “Never forget that there are people in the world who are poor, who are sick, who are disabled. It is our job to tolerate them.”
And another leader said, “We must never be afraid to speak out, in moderation! Let us stand in solidarity with ALL who struggle, as long it doesn’t jeopardize our jobs, our 401 (k)s or our prospects for tenure!”
“Amen!” I shouted. I couldn’t help myself. I was intoxicated with moderation!
And now I sleep much better because I don’t get outraged anymore. I only get outraged-ish.
Helen Keller Admiration
On the one hand, there’s the kind of admiration I will refer to as superstar quarterback admiration. On the other hand, there’s the kind of admiration I will refer to as Helen Keller admiration.
And make no mistake, there’s a shitload of Helen Keller admiration out there. Gallup took a poll to determine the most admired people of the 20th Century and Helen Keller came in fifth, just ahead of FDR, who was also crippled.
But still, Helen Keller admiration just doesn’t stack up when measured against superstar quarterback admiration. Ask yourself this: Does anyone want to be that superstar quarterback they admire so much? And the answers you get to choose from are a) yes b) yes c) yes d) all of the above. Tons of children dress up like that superstar quarterback and pretend to be him. So do tons of adults.
But even the people who most deeply admire Helen Keller don’t say to themselves, “Boy, I sure hope someday I’ll be deaf and blind like her.” Children don’t plug up their ears and wear blindfolds and pretend to be Helen Keller. Adults never dress up like Helen Keller, except maybe as part of some kinky sex fantasy role-playing game. But for our purposes today, that doesn’t count.
On the third hand, there’s the kind of admiration I will refer to as war hero admiration. War hero admiration falls somewhere between superstar quarterback admiration and Helen Keller admiration. People who admire war heroes would like to live the life a war hero lives, but only up to a certain point.
Like for instance, there’s a city park here in Chicago that’s named after a war hero. This guy became a war hero when he sacrificed his life to save the platoon by throwing himself on a live hand grenade. Now let’s all admit that we all have something deep inside of us that would love to have a city park named in our honor. But if we have to throw ourselves on a live hand grenade in order to earn that status, we don’t want it that bad. We’ll continue living our ordinary, unheroic, anonymous lives. Thanks anyway, though.
When it comes to war hero admiration, we’d all love to live the hero part of their lives, if we could somehow bypass the war part. Still, that’s more than we can say for Helen Keller admiration. Is admiration even the right word for how humans today feel about Helen Keller? Can we call it admiration when our warm regard for someone is surpassed only by our gratitude that we are not them? I don’t know. I’ll leave that for the great philosophers to decide.