Yes he should. Here let me really piss you and every one else off! Chuck's a very intelligent guy who got the major ass fuck in life. Granted. But he can be on the computer and post here and there all day. Sorry but why can't he be on the computer or phone a couple hours a day and work? Helping people, perhaps like himself, deal with govt. red tape or whatever? Or why can't he mentor or tutor kids in school via the net or phone? Unless you're in a coma, you should have to do something to earn that check based on your ability. Now you can spit.
I'll explain it. If I make so much as 50+ dollars a week...they bend me over and reduce my medicare/medicaid significantly. If I make 75+ bucks a week, that starts working itself backwards out of my disability check. For any 1 step forward, I take 3 steps back and away from what few assurances I have. I've checked around, no insurance company will touch me with even a quarter of the coverage I have now, for less than 500-600 a month. It is economically impossible for me to move away from the Damocles of entitlement I receive without putting myself in literal financial/medical peril.
The "tools" provided for me to move away from tit sucking are rigid in design and work basically as a one size fits all approach to the myriad of realities that face a kaleidoscope of people with needs. No one will hire me to take breaks every 10 to 15 minutes to rest my fingers. If I were fortunate enough to find an employer with Dragon Speak, any charm or charisma I might have initially wooed them with, will wear thin quickly as I leave for the 3rd, 4th or 5th time in a week because I shit myself and need to go home to clean up...and when I get home there's no guarantee someone will be there to help me. I did volunteer work until this past year, but I kept getting sick all of the time...and either through lack of mental perseverance on my part or my body just refusing to cooperate or both...I stopped pushing myself...because quite frankly when I get sick I play mumbly pegs with death...and call me a pussy...but the game was/is getting scary...so I put the brakes on some of the major players.
My independence exist in a very tenuous state that has almost zero room for flux. Actually, as long as I'm being honest, using the word independence in conjunction within the reality I dwell, bares little resemblance to it's definition. It's more like someone with Downs Syndrome living with mommy or daddy or an "independent" living center, who allow them to pretend they're independent...or tell them they are...as long as they're constantly surrounded my caretakers or someone who checks up on them frequently...who have every wonderful intention in the world...but without whom you ultimately couldn't function. Not because of spoiled dependence, but because of the absolute necessity of such. There's not a day that goes by I don't praise their efforts and curse my pretend time.
My last taste of independence was 1996. When I was renting my own apartment in Melbourne. It was the last time I could physically take care of all my needs AND work 60+ hours a week...tired beyond words, but able to recover. I loved working with my hands. I always gravitated towards employment (except for my stent in real estate) that required meticulous eye hand coordination. Like mill spec assembly work for Government computer contracts. I made good money. I was fast, exceedingly accurate, and sent sigma numbers through the roof for quality and quantity...good times. I wasn't smart enough to foresee a future that would require more grey matter and less nimbley time. Quite frankly, I thought I was a dead man rolling...and I spent what time I thought was running out of doing what gave me the most joy and sense of pride. So flash forward to 46...and I'm the most miscalculating fuckwad...ever.
I'm writing a book now (3 actually) while my fingers and voice box still work and maybe I'll hit paydirt....but that's not my primary motivation. I want to write something good. Something that makes people go, "God damn"...but writings infinitely more difficult than I imaged and it's a painfully slow process. Hell all of this took me more than an hour to vomit out, with said gimpy breaks in tow.
Do I want to be a leech? No. I've darkly entertained a few morbid alternatives (spare the tax payers and all), because being alive doesn't come without routine acknowledgement of my many failings, incredibly bad planning, and my most frequent tormentor...an entitlement receiving bag of shit, but I can never bring myself to carry them out. Bonafide pussy to the end I guess.
If one of my books should get published (in alternative fantasy land) and a heavenly amount of scratch lands in my bank account as a result...I'm taking you and the cunt on a drunken theme park week with me...and you get to wipe the turkey leg shit outta my ass.
