If I Only Had a Stump

Do you ever feel like certain things are holding you back in life? Of course you do. Why would you think otherwise? Accepting responsibility for your mediocre life accomplishes nothing. It’s everyone else’s fault. It always has been and always will be. But what if it’s not just other people stifling your growth? What if a part of yourself is getting in the way?

People with Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID) know the truth. Needless limbs are hampering our potential. Appendages are nothing more than extraterrestrial flanges meant to oppress us. Walking sucks. Who needs legs? Creating the wheel is pointless if we’re just going to plod around. The disabled don’t know how fortunate they are. Their treacherous limbs are removed for them through random good luck. The rest of us have to gallivant across the globe and consult a money-siphoning amputation specialist. 

Life would be so much better if I was gimped out. My id would be free to fulfill its desires. I’d introduce myself as “Dr Bob Knobblestub” to everyone I meet. Their uneasy glances would tingle my insides. I’d also insist that they shake my stump. Refusing to glad-hand my knob would illustrate their intolerance of the handicapped. Anyone who won’t shake a stump is clearly a misogynist. 

Besides being a great prop, my stump would also serve a practical purpose: guilt-tripping anyone who disagrees with me. I could make the most outlandish claims imaginable and people would have to comply. A few contrarians may challenge my assertions that cats can smell polkadots or that God speaks through microwave beeps, but they’d change their tune the second I held up my stump. My eyes would get as dewey as a dandelion field at dawn. My bottom lip would tremble like a tuning fork. Everyone would look at the would-be critic as though they had punched a baby. The naysayer would eventually hang their head in shame and forfeit the argument. Sympathy for the legless trumps logic in every debate. It’s a fact. 

Despite my condition, I wouldn’t hobble or ride a wheelchair; I’d go sidewalk rafting. A grocery cart would be my ship. A soiled mop would be my paddle. Pedestrians would be forced to dive out of my cart’s path as I sail the city. I’d sing off-key sea shanties down by the seashore in a falsetto voice, annoying everyone I come into contact with. My stainless steel vessel would be anchored in a public pool with a naval mine. I’d drop a line and fish for swimmers. I imagine I’d have to beat some of the livelier ones with an oar to keep them from flopping around on my imaginary poop deck. 

There are occasions when a shopping cart wouldn’t be appropriate, however. If I approached a staircase, I’d tumble out of the grocery schooner and onto the steps. Other people would have to wait patiently and politely as I flop my way up the stairs. Anyone who gets angry or feels uncomfortable is simply being intolerant. If somebody offers me assistance, I’ll scream at them for condescending to me. Don’t interrupt. My inner monkeyface prickleback is testing its land potential. And don’t suggest using a  handicapped ramp. Why would I want to make my own ascent easier when it means I can’t slow other people down?

Stump stamping wouldn’t require a cart either, but I would have to bounce around like a robotic pogo stick. The knot on my leg would be painted with various designs. Buildings, sidewalks, postal trucks and children’s faces would all be branded. I’d use glitter paint during my festive moods. One day I could emboss churches with purple dick prints and the next I could stamp glow in the dark tangerine swastikas on daycare centers. The world would be my canvass. Each stamp would be shit-quality graffiti made with minimal effort and produced by a crippled malcontent. Art fags would love it.

Naturally, I’d become a world-famous artist overnight. Fortune would follow once I agree to do a commercial for crotch fungal cream. Real artists prostitute themselves in TV and internet advertisements. I’d look down at my prestigious stump with pride. Part of me would want to give something back to my fellow cripples. That side of my personality would be swiftly murdered by the part of me that knows how to have fun. I may give my fellow nub-wigglers a pittance for good publicity, but that would be it. I’ve got better plans for that money. 

Golden stilts. 

My stump’s stilt would have to be longer to balance out the length discrepancy. I’ll dominate and control everyone once I learn to walk again. Who can resist the demands of a fifteen-foot-tall dictator with golden legs? Nobody, that’s who. A few dissenters may be tempted to disobey, but not because they’re rebelling against my tyranny. They just want the honor of being kicked by my golden foot and I’m happy to oblige. I do what I can to help the little people. 

And why stop at stilts? My newfound fortune could provide me with a litany of enhancing features. I’ll get testosterone injected directly into my eyeballs. This would allow me to kill living things just by glaring at them. Anyone who thinks otherwise will be glowered at until their internal organs rupture. Swords will be attached to my finger tips. They would be fashioned out of the strongest thermoplastic polymers in order to evade magnetic resistance from the alloy-mining mole people. Anyone wishing to avoid slaughter would have to stand on a stool and kiss my stump. 

Obviously, I’d be a god among men if it weren’t for my stupid, functional limbs. Like a rabid demigod on a meth binge, I’d stalk mortals for sport, destroy their cities rule everything around me. People would pray for safety as they avert their eyes from the golden-legged giant with buff eyes and razor-sharp claws forged from plastic. Plus, I’d be rich, which means I could buy the justice system. Not that I’d need to. Nobody would challenge me. I’d just want to use cops and judges as lawn darts. 

And I could, if I only had a stump.