Wednesday night. Black Sheep Lodge. $1 “White Trash Cans,” also known as Lone Star and Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboys, Schlitz,
Chris: “I haven’t seen any midgets around lately. Did they find a cure?”
Carlos: “I’m pretty sure it’s a genetic condition, not a disease.”
Chris: “Yeah, but I thought there was a procedure now to . . . stretch out their chromosomes.”
Joel: “I don’t think so, but a mother’s diet plays a role.”
Ryan: “Sure, they’re not supposed to eat certain things when they’re pregnant. Like shrimps. Or baby carrots.”
If you didn’t find this amusing, you’re either overly sensitive toward “diminutive” people or you’re a little person yourself, in which case I apologize profusely. I apologize anyway. I gush with apology. This posting is in poor taste and the illustration, an embarrassing emphasis of my depravity. But . . . I . . . can’t . . . stop. If you think about it, though, Chris, Ryan, and Joel are mostly to blame. I’m not abstract enough to associate short chromosomes and baby carrots with dwarfism, and had it not been Joel’s birthday, I wouldn’t even have been out “on the street,” as my girlfriend would say, in the middle of the week. I’m a victim. C’mon, Munchkinland? I love midgets for Christ’s sake.