Though another columnist on this site calls himself the Fat Midget, this title is somewhat of a misnomer. Just as Crazy Ass 13 could better be titled Crazy Cocksucker 24/7, Thick Shorty would be a better name for Fat Midget. Meaning, his nom de plume isnt exactly true, but merely hints at his true self. (Just in case my lame insight has made you curious, rest assured that only I am the real deal on this site filled with deceitful bastards I am indeed a gay robot from the future.)
The reason I single out Fat Midget is because Ive spoken with him, and were he actually a midget I definitely would have made a indelible mental note. I know this for a fact now that I have had a conversation with a grade A genuine little person.
As Im sure Fat Midget and anyone else thats met me can attest, the last thing that I would ever want to do upon meeting someone for the first time is talk to them. Hell, I dont even like to converse with close friends. For the most part I like to stare while you talk, dreaming of more pleasant things like monster trucks that transform into car-eating dinosaurs.
However, when the opportunity presented itself to speak with a midget, I said to myself two things. 1) A fucking midget is talking to me. And 2) Dont screw this up, Fagatron. Who knows when another chance like this will present itself. After all, I lived two blocks away from a girl midget in 4th grade (who actually wasnt that much shorter than the rest of us at that age, but she did have those tell-tale midget markings). My mom encouraged me to be nice to her, but thankfully she died of midget complications before I was forced to acknowledge her existence and her midgetness. Years later, I would regret not having taken the opportunity to know a shorty that was a shorty.
Well, the midget in question this time around was a male, but still I was compelled to speak to him. He approached me at a urinal line at a concert. He, like I, felt that the Von Bondies (sadly stereotypical, and unfortunately wedged between the equally fabulous Datsuns and The Dirtbombs to boot!) was a perfect pissing opportunity.
He came up behind me and said, Is this the line for the urinal?
Many responses ran through my head at that moment. Things such as, Holy fuck, youre a midget! And Can you even reach the urinal?
Instead, I said, Yep.
Fffuuuuuuuuck, said the tiny fella. Then a scant moment later he confided to me, You
know, they call me Tiny.
The perfect reply came to my head instantly. Whys that? I replied.
By this time we were past the bathroom door and into the inner sanctum of the Mens bathroom where a lanky Jesse Camp lookin motherfucker was manicuring his perfectly messed up hair. Upon seeing this dude the midget instantly said, Whats up, stretch! Then proceeded to chat it up with this former 8th Street Kid for a moment before jumping into the nearest available toilet.
I was mad, for not only did this inebriated mini-person skip ahead in line, he also robbed me of the pleasure of seeing him struggle to piss in the giant mans world. But how could I be angry with something so cute that had learned to so aptly manipulate the big people that constantly looked down upon him? I couldnt, and as he walked past me on his way out of the bathroom, I put my hand out in response to his (at least for him) high five.
See you upstairs, he told me as he left. To which I thought, Not unless youre sitting on someones shoulders.
Fagatron 2093
