Short and Sweet

What if I told you that over 1,500 midgets are seriously injured by house cats every year? If you are anywhere near as warped as I am you would probably find this to be pretty funny. I am here to tell you that it is not funny. Some of my dearest friends are midgets. I like house cats as much as the next guy. I know you think it’s cute when your cat brings you a midget or a dead squirrel (A dead rat is just gross, nothing cute about a dead rat) and drops it on your back porch steps but this midget carnage simply must end.

I, myself, am only 5’9”, which means that I am “legally” a midget--whatever the fuck that means. Do you think I am able to get a job as a freakishly tall midget? Not likely. There is no market for the Shaquille O’Neil of the little people. I am a man without a country as far as the height thing goes: too short for the NBA and too tall to land the good parts like a Christmas elf or a leprechaun. Instead I wander in the netherworld with thoughts of platform shoes or simply slouching to take an inch or two off my vertical stature. So what if I scored 40 points at center in the Lord of the Rings vs. Wizard of Oz extras basketball tournament final? After the game I'm shunned as a freak by all the other players. It's lonely here at the top and it's lonelier still at the bottom of the big leagues.