Monday, March 17, 2014

Los Paralympicos

Remember her?
We all breathed a massive sigh of relief when the Paralympics of 2014 finally faded away and into sporting history; out with a faint whimper, and not a much-feared over-hyped terroristic bang.
Center stage had been ripped away from the games by the strange fate of a missing Malaysian airliner, and like those golden sunsets which had descended upon the towering mountaintops surrounding the assorted villages of Sochi Num-Nums, the disabled athletes quickly scurried back to their respective homelands, returning to their empty lives of desperate isolation and self-loathing.

However, back on THIS side of the Atlantic, a senior couple: Bill and Marg, waxed poetic over a tray of ‘tea and biscuits’, about the ceremonial closure of this non-sporting event.

Bill: Well, thank god it’s finally over! We won’t have to watch it for another four years.

Marg: Watch what, Honey?

Bill: The Paralympics… What a fucking joke! Who wants to see the Olympic wet dream ego-trip of a bunch of handicapped jocks anyway?
I mean, really… does anybody take this stuff seriously?

Marg: Gee Bill, I kind of enjoy it…

Bill: Tell me Marg… What’s the difference between the Paralympics and Monty Python anyway? 


Marg: Uh, the theme music?

Bill: That deaf, dumb and blind kid, doing the pole vault? A bloody farce it is!

Marg: ...Yes, but I'm sure he plays a mean Pin-Ball.

Bill: We used to have another name for events like the Paralympics, back in the day…
We called it the CIRCUS!!!  ...bunch of freaks!

Marg: OK, it's time to take your meds dear... and would you like some milk in your tea?

In order to truly understand the how’s and why’s of the present, one must always look into the past.
Here’s a conversation between a mother and her son, coming from a time before the Paralympics were even a glimmer in any Statist's eye.

Son: Hey Ma, when I grow up, I wanna be a javelin thrower. 

Mother: Oh, but Sonny, there’s just one problem: YOU DON’T HAVE ARMS!

Son: You’re right Ma, that does pose a bit of a problem…

Hey, I’ve got an idea… let’s invent something called the Paralympics!

Mother: Oh, how novel, it might just work… and I’m willing to bet that we can guilt the people into allowing government funding of our games, with their own tax dollars. What a great idea! …at last I can be proud of you. My dear son: “the armless javelin tosser”!

Son: But Ma, what about all those street people living in cardboard boxes and stuff, shouldn’t we be giving money to them too?

Mother: If someone can figure out a way for them to make us proud, and generate some wealth, we can always fund them too!

Son: Hey, I've got it! How about a marathon booze-up chug-a-lug contest?

Mother: Well, that’s not such a bad idea!  All your ideas are good ones, Sonny.

Son: Yes, we can even pump them full of beer, then they can partake in a Urine-fest Piss-a-thon!

Mother: Oh, stop it! Now you’re being silly!

So it was decreed, and the Paralympics were born.

Then, many more years into the future, another insightful conversation took place between yet another mother and her son:

Son: Hey Ma, I’ve got no legs, but I still wanna be a sprinter!

Mother: No problem Sonny, we’ll just enroll you in the Paralympics.

Son: But Mummy, without legs, how ever will I run?”

Mother: Oh, don’t worry, someone will probably fit you with a couple of 'J shaped' carbon-fibre blades to run with… and trust me, you’ll do just fine… but if you should SUCK at that… here, take this gun, you can always try target-shooting!

Son: Oh, how I love guns!

Mother: I know, I know… but just remember, never to 'shoot first and ask questions later', ok?!

Son: I will!

Just a side-note: Most people with physical disabilities, living in here the future, have opted to live on the Martian Colonies (for obvious reasons). However, those who do live among us, here in Nova Avalon, are valued for who they are as people, and nothing more... never to be exploited for profit, as statist propaganda, nor for their own ego gratification.


The Dirty One    Village 5, Nova Avalon.         Year 17 P.T.E.


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