My Grandpa always used to tell me "without milk, there's no need for bees to die lonely."  I can't say that I ever figured out what that meant, but then again, my father used to tell me that I was adopted and born a different gender, so you could say that I had a pretty confusing childhood.  In fact, it wasn't until I was already in high school that I learned that being handcuffed to a sprinkler head and sleeping on the lawn wasn't normal household behavior.  Maybe I am just a slow learner.

After I lost my leg fending off hoards of one-eyed Russian hookers while stationed in Germany, I figured that life as I knew it would be over, forever changed as I claimed disability and staked out a street corner where I could beg for cash.  I'd make an attempt to play the fiddle or perhaps some other string instrument in an effort to entice you to donate money.  I'd fashion a crude sign out of some stolen cardboard where I would write some pathetic yet extremely creative short story about how my dog ate my wife and my kid has cancer of the left lung.  That's what I thought my post-legless life would entail.  Boy was I was wrong!

I caught a Macguyver re-run where he saved some starving Ethiopian kid from near death by fashioning a crude helicopter out of a broken lamp and some dry bread.  The idea slowly dawned on me that perhaps I could pull some kind of "at home Macguyver" setup and get myself out of this predicament.  Unfortunately, try as I might, I simply couldn't make a crude helicopter serve as a functioning leg.  And I tried all the variants, too.  Dry bread, wet bread, horse bread, corn bread, wheat bread, goat bread; nothing seemed to change.  I needed to re-think my options.  Once again, Bob Ross came to the rescue.

During a particularly intense paint by numbers session with old Bob (I used to call him that affectionately and he would reply in turn by calling me his little buddy), I got the bright idea to fashion a makeshift leg out of some used popsicle sticks and string cheese.  It took me a couple of tries but before I knew it, I was out and about, hobnobbing with the other normal people of society.  I made up a few extras because you never know when these things will give out.  Whenever "House of Pain - Jump Around" comes on in the club, I have a hard time restraining myself.  I've gone home on more than one occassion legless and alone.  You'd probably be surprised at the underground niche market for amputee adult-rated films.  I'm known as "Wild Cowboy" in all of mine because my signature move is to take my wooden apendage and swing it around my head during climax.  I think it really adds a touch of flair and originality to an otherwise bland genre.  Don't look at me that way.  Hey, I might have lost one leg but rest assured that I have two more that are fully functional if you know what I mean.

My soccer game has suffered slightly because of the new improvements but I think I'll live. Wearing shorts is not an option these days, unfortunately.  You'd be surprised how many people blatantly stare at me.  Homeless people always try and steal the string cheese when I am not looking, so I find it best to just not advertise.  It's rather nice getting all the good parking spaces too.  The popsicle leg doesn't bother me at all nor does it hinder my motion, but whenever I park at the mall, I always make sure to walk with a pronounced limp.  Sometimes you really have to sell the whole handicapped angle or people just get mad and figure that you cheated the system.  I occasionally trip and fall on purpose.  I find that it's a great way to meet people.

Halloween is always a no-brainer for me and I go as a pirate every year.  Yar matey, me leg be wooden!  People are always coming up to me at those parties and telling me that I "talk good pirate."  I usually wind up punching them in the face for insulting my American heritage.  I'm generally a shoe-in for best costume whenever I enter.  The judges always comment on how real my wooden leg looks.  After I try to tell them that it is my real leg, they laugh and say "good joke!"  I'm not sure that they understand that I am not joking.  It also makes a great party gag too.  You should see the looks on peoples faces after I run into a wall or something.  They gasp for air as my leg shatters into itty bitty pieces.  I cry out in pain to really sell the prank also.  It doesn't hurt me one bit but they certainly don't know that.  Then I walk around for the rest of the evening on my hands and make polite conversation with the short people at the party.  Kind of a downer if they wind up playing Charades though.

Unfortunately, my situation isn't all fun and disability checks.  You have to face a harsh, cold reality when you live with a wooden leg.  Constant surprise beaver attacks are the norm for me and my dreams of becoming a professional wrestler went right out the window.  Not to mention having to eat all those damn popsicles to keep the supplies for my new legs populated.  I'm a regular in the freezer aisle now at my local grocery store.  "More popsicles, eh buddy?" the clerk usually asks.  I smile a forced grin and imagine a world in which I was a trained ninja.  Then I could sneak up behind him and chop his neck in one swift ninja-like move.  I'd get to wear cool black pajamas all day and talk in subtitles.  Oh, but to daydream.  They don't let people with wooden legs become ninjas.  I'd probably just wind up absuing the tools of the trade and fashioning myself a new leg out of a sharpened staff or something.  Don't even get me started on my friends, either.  Every single day I have to endure yet another stick pun at my expense.  "Don't be such a stick in the mud."  "You're always a stickler for details."  "Stick with us, kid.  We're going places."  *sigh*  These are the people that cause me to drink.

Each day is a struggle, but a struggle that I think I am dealing with rather well.  I've adapted and made do in a world which didn't want me to succeed.  I'm a normal, functioning human being.  Granted, there are a few caveats, but who doesn't have those?  I don't have to walk around holding a grudge and being bitter.  Maybe the next time that some chick tells me that it "isn't the leg, it's me" I will believe her.  Yeah right.  She's just jealous of my costumes and imagined ninja skills.  I was too good for her anyway.  Next!