ring baloney

MAN ON THE STREET
Christopher Jon Heuer
He Wrote About Ring Baloney and Disappeared
This is my version of hell: I’m condemned to float around for eternity
on a giant piece of ring baloney in a huge subterranean cavern that’s
half-filled with ring baloney juice. The steam rising from the
bottomless depths sticks to my skin like a wet rubber hospital glove. I
have nothing to eat except lukewarm ring baloney chunks, I have nothing
to drink except lukewarm ring baloney juice, and there’s just enough
murky light to assure that I’ll always be able to see my ring baloney
raft bobbing up and down in the gentle lapping waves…
I tell you this not only because I honestly believe that ring baloney
numbers among the foodstuffs of Satan (which I do), but also to advance
the theory that a Deaf writer can write about something other than
deafness and not spontaneously self-combust. A lot of Deaf writers I
know start out with the intention of helping to make Deafness known to
the outside world. . . which is a good and noble intention, to be sure.
But we should (gasp!) also be writing about that outside world as if we
(gasp!) already lived in it, because we (gasp!) already do!
Take ring baloney. Does my opinion on this putrid, gut-wrenching
substance somehow not count because I’m Deaf? Are there some additional
social or physical criteria I have to meet before I can write about ring
baloney any old time I want to, just like a hearing writer can? And I
write my opinion on this nauseating non-food down, does doing so somehow
make me less Deaf because ring baloney has nothing to do with Deaf
Culture? Or is it possible to remain Deaf and still write about ring
baloney?
Hey, you never know. Ring baloney has lots of evil, hidden dark powers
that we don’t fully understand. It could go either way.
Still, I think we should at least test it out–we could try being Deaf
*and* write about things other than Deafness once in a while. Just to
see if lightning bolts don’t come thundering down out of angry black
skies, or if the pulsating (when we aren’t looking) ring baloney in our
refrigerators doesn’t come creeping up on us in the middle of the night,
entwine itself around our flailing limbs, and drag us shrieking off into
the gloom.
So I’ve written about ring baloney, and now I’m going to bed. If I’m
still around come morning, great. If not, remember me as brave and send
generous monetary donations to my wife and cat.
From The Tactile Mind Weekly #32

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