I knew that I wanted to be something more than the town cripple.

When he was a boy growing up in Auburn, Ind., Gene Mitchener used humor to cope with the crippling effects of Kugleberg Wylander Syndrome. Now he gets paid for making jokes about his wheelchair in appearances around the country. Mitchener, 44, lives in Woodland Hills.

My first memory of being handicapped was in the first grade. I was on crutches at the time. My crutch slipped on the ice into a manhole grate and broke. I crawled two blocks in ice and snow to school. That was the first time I realized that things were a little bit different for me.

A lot of times kids would joke at me. I found out that it was a lot better for me if I would throw even better jokes back. So I would throw good jokes back and they would start laughing with me instead of at me. The attitude and the laughter changed from ridicule to complete acceptance.

When I graduated from high school, the town fathers wanted to create a life for me. So they were going to build a popcorn stand on the town square. I felt like they were putting a limit on my life. I wanted the Corvette and the beautiful wife and everything life had to offer. I couldn’t picture myself sitting in my little booth selling popcorn.

Tomorrow, 20 some odd years later, they are flying me back to Auburn as a successful entertainer. I get to be right behind the grand marshal in this big $140,000 Duesenberg as an honored guest in the annual classic car parade. This is the guy who was supposed to sell popcorn on the courthouse steps.

When I graduated, I didn’t know what I had in mind, but I knew that I wanted to be something more than the town cripple. I said, ‘I’ve got a couple of things going for me: my mind and my voice. Those work fine. Let’s find something where I can work with them.’

I wanted to be a comedian. I thought, ‘What a perfect thing for me. I’m using my mind and my voice and entertaining people.’ I didn’t see anyone in the entertainment industry at that time who was disabled. I felt that you had to have a certain look. I didn’t think I would be accepted by the audience.

In 1979, I was visiting some friends in a band in San Diego. They said, ‘During the break, we’ll have a new young comedian on stage.’ The next thing I knew, they put down their instruments and came over to me. They picked me up and set me on stage and said, ‘You’ve got 15 minutes, enjoy yourself.’ There I was, stuck on stage. After that experience, I went outside the club and I screamed, ‘Move over, Johnny Carson.’ That was the night that I really made my commitment to pursue a career in comedy.

I’m being flown back to my home town as an achiever because I decided that’s what I wanted to do. If you’re complaining about what life has dealt you, go out and pick up your own set of cards and deal your own hand. There are so many things in my life that are happening merely because I’ve gotten off my butt instead of dreaming, ‘I’d love to do that someday.’ Someday never comes.

There are a lot of different places that I have the opportunity to speak or perform at, that other entertainers don’t. I’m on as an evangelist, or a motivational speaker or a disabled issues speaker.

I’ve been given a podium that I normally wouldn’t have if I were just a radical disabled person protesting about life. You need to candy-coat it in comedy as opposed to being very direct about your statement. Society is not ready to hear any negative statements.

The wheelchair that I sit in costs $1,800. It shouldn’t cost that much. Basically, it’s just a chrome frame and four wheels. A shopping cart costs $200. It’s a chrome frame and four wheels. How do I sell that on stage? I say, ‘How do you like the new chair? Pretty spiffy, huh? This cost 1,800. I wasn’t upset about the cost until I found out it was a recycled grocery cart. Yeah, every time I go into a grocery, one wheel locks up and it pulls to the right.’ They’re laughing but underneath it, they’ve gotten a very serious message.