The Death of Merle

"All fault tolerance techniques must be built upon a failure hypothesis."-- Concurrency in Ada, p366

The actual online disabled community must feel cheated by me, as they probably should, with the exception being my embrace of emergent aggression in my pre-sixty years, though I can confirm I already know the literature on aging and violence, I do my own thing, and some actual wheelchair users who surf in may scratch a dandruff flake wondering what Romanek's troubled Reagan era parable, such that Static is, has to do with the terrible toll of human helplessness, and the risks I take, eschewing attendant care in a battered, now protesting Jazzy, without a vendor to service it no less, though Moss at 2400 gave me a vendor to try in an emergency, I am, essentially, at the mercy of chance, my jugular exposed. I can make a correlation, of course, between Keith Gordon's fatal aspirations as Eric, and the disabled community's fatal Orwellian prognostications, but why should normal Americans be forced to think; it runs counter to the American way. More importantly, the Farrelly brothers fail. Shallow Hal comes thumb and forefinger close to fusing deformity and Hollywood into a true aesthetic viewing experience but they cannot pull it off. The jump shots to the guy with his obvious brace diaper padded spina bifida, and the woman with the skeletal arms-- my neighbor down the hall has the same condition-- jar the comedy, taking the viewer out of context on discordant notes, despite the beat written into the script. Even as a high farce, letting birth deformity be what it is mars any genre back to earth, which is why I doubt disability will ever truly make great art, cupping my ear to the carpet for the roar of thunder to follow. True, Christopher Reeve, whom I chastised while he was still among the living, was given a cameo on Smallville, and it worked, but Reeve was a trained actor, and ran his larynx tortured invalid cyborg skit before yielding to a lowly pressure sore, something to which I too am at risk, dying in mid-sentence. The Walking Dead now appeals to me, not that it fools me. The intense declarative sentences lend themselves to some nihilistic bemusement, yet its stark survivalism has caught up with those of us always a tripwire away from the worst at the bottom of the barrel. I feel like waving at the production crew and blowing a kiss, even if I'm necessarily a few seasons behind and don't know how close to season 8 WPHL can bring those without a cable subscription. The gay couple bringing Grimes and the troupe to Alexandria make me sick; that goes without saying, but we understand the South conceded feudalism on the ruthless calculus of General William T Sherman, whose memoirs I've scantily penetrated in the 20 (?) years I've owned my LOA edition, starting them again, and Georgia minds its p's and q's with only the softest hint of subterfuge. I knew Rooker was Merle without acknowledging that this is where the serial killer inside went, into a mean mother of a bastard the Governor's system had to destroy. As naturally born anarchists with claws cannot be trusted, they are exterminated by liberalism and tyranny alike.
What's she getting at?