There was a man who used to roll around my punk rock neighbourhood in Fort Royal in his wheelchair. In those days the world was not set up for a man to go wheelchairing about. There were no dips in the curb or lifts into buses or any of that shit like handicapped parking we take for granted now. Wheelchair buddy was the original stubborn fucker with a spinal injury.
One day as Jimi, Stan, Phil and Curly were making their way from their car to my noisy apartment, all loaded down with black leather and impropriety, they saw wheelchair buddy coming down the hill about 100 mph. Jimi said, "His eyes were bigger than Doc Ellis'! He was right out of control. At the bottom of the hill he crossed the road, slammed into the curb and flew onto the lawn in front of your place."
Stan said, "You missed it man. I never saw a man fly so far. It was fucking wicked."
Curly added, "It was a good thing we smoked some Thai weed on our way over here. It was like something out of Monty Python."
Jimi finished the report. "So we walked up to him. He was just laying there. The soft lawn saved his cripple ass. And we helped him back into his chair. Then he asked us not tell anyone what we saw because his sister is always trying to lock him away in a home someplace where no one even has to wipe their own fucking ass. That wheelchair fucker is one cool motherfucking dude."
Phil reminded Jimi of the one thing he forgot, "You forgot to tell Beer the fucker was loaded. All you could smell was whisky when we we picked him up. We should have smoked him up. That was the only help he needed!"