History sucks ass

I seem to have no problem holding a door open for a guy in a wheelchair, but if someone comes along behind me on crutches I’ll let a 350 pound piece of glass push his crippled ass into traffic.  There is a very reasonable chance that both the guy in the rolling sofa and the one leaning on pre-depression era medical devices are suffering from the same affliction.  The only real difference between them could be rolling thunder is to fat to get up, yet subconsciously I still consider him less capable and at the same time more worthy of my assistance.  

We’ve all witnessed both example’s brazen statements that they are just like you and me and any proposed aid is a offensive on the level of separate water fountains.  Unlike most I’m not affected by those remarks mainly because I’m waiting for the day 6 flights of steps and a busted elevator between them and their car causes a slight adjustment in attitude.  I’m more concerned with why I seem to have selective compassion.

I can meet someone who is walking with a limp because their leg will be completely rotted off by the end of the day tomorrow and as I walk away I will still roll my eyes in disgust.  Suck it up or get a chair dipshit.  I even fight the urge to force feed an elbow to everyone I see on crutches.  The only real reason for restraint is the fear of a loose crutch bouncing off the wall and into my eye.  The older I get the less restraint I seem to have in other areas.  I suspect it is only a matter of time before I notice the gentlemen with the cane in front of me on the escalator is not 80 years old and I am no longer allowed to enter the Bellagio.