So… one courageous volunteer group is giving new meaning to the term “handicapped”.

Like, as in, their hands on your mushroom cap… if you’re disabled and mayhaps can’t DIY.

The rundown is that it’s a bunch of people who volunteer to do “second base” kinda stuff for those whose physical setbacks preclude them from having normal reaches or even takin curr’a bidniz themselves (like if you’ve got a muscle waste-y disease or something). These “Hand Angels”, as they’re called, don’t do the whole shebang or mouth lovin’and some of the volunteers are even disabled themselves. You just hafta have functional fingers to serve, I suppose.

I’m a human, so – to my shame – my first reaction was obviously to laugh at this. And by “laugh”, I mean guffaw until I had a steady snot stream of the wrong-way juice I’d been consuming, now pumping outta my nasal passage with each chortle. It’s awful. Disabilities aren’t funny when you’re actually faced with them. And the “foreveralone” feeling of not being able to bag a lover so that you hafta resort to sexual services is kinda sad too. But, somehow, they’re both hilarious when they become abstract far-removed-from-anyone-I-know concepts. Like Homer Simpson always says, “It’s funny because I don’t know them”. Otherwise we wouldn’t cry comic tears over it when something related happens in a movie (however “tastefully” it’s done, the disabled person’s still the punchline when Forrest Gump’s reacting to Lt. Dan’s reverse wheelchair accident or Something about Mary’s brother keeps asking everyone where his baseball is with deaf inflection). I’m not saying it’s right – I’m just saying it’s the way things currently are. We do the same when mocking old people. So, yeah, my primary reaction when I read this piece VICE just shared was to scan up to the top – just to make sure I wasn’t on “The Onion”.

To be fair, though, I literally just saw a faux story like this on a satirical military site.

Something about “Renting hookers as therapy for PTSD vets”.

That one was just as fake as it was hilarious, so the whole time I’m reading this thing, my brain’s stuck like a Doberman with ruffled fur who’s trying to decide whether to attack or retreat. I tried to discern: was this fake or f’real? When I found out it was legit, I thought “Ah, maybe that’s kinda nice. I probably would never take advantage of it because I’d be too insecure about my disability if I had one bad enough to need this service; but I get it. We all need human contact” Ya know, oxytocin and comfort and all that jizz jazz. So I don’t hate this idea. It’s kinda like that Helen Hunt movie based on a true story (ya know – where she’s a therapist who forks the dude who’s bed ridden and had a breathing machine or something?) After remembering this tale, I also remembered she got paid for that. ’cause she was like a psych-whore-logist or something? (I may need to watch again for clarification.) And that made me kinda move the punchline from the disabled to these self proclaimed selfless, sexual saints… I mean, how would coming to that conclusion for a life choice look? How do you opt to join a volunteer ogasmination organization? I’m trying to envisage the process and I just keep seeing a “hand”ful of people out there who woke up one day and said, “I’ve conferred with the 1,000 petaled lotus flower that resonates above my seventh chakra. And it’s been determined. My spiritual calling is definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to become… a no-profit prostitute.”

No money. No love. No personal orgasm…

I’m trying to understand.

And I kinda sorta can for those who are disabled too – because that’s like addicts sponsoring each other. Empathy.

But I wonder: how many of these people volunteer ‘cause they’ve, like… just gotta weird fetish?