Midgets and Bigjets

I have had some recent run ins with a local midget. My midget story begins in my first week of moving to this new city. I frequented a local gym as I had/have no friends and needed to fill in time and retain sanity. I was lucky enough to run into a midget on this visit, and many after wards, as it seemed I shared a routine with the big guy.

As a nice lead into this yarn, I was at a Halloween party some months before my move. I was being led around as a gimp, dressed in tight plastic strapped up with chains, when I saw a midget dressed as the devil. I searched my memory for any of my friends that knew a midget and came up zero, so his presence was puzzling to me, I could smell some fun. I knew for damn sure I wanted to meet this pint sized Beelzebub fella. I made my master lead me over to him and was greeted with the drunkest surliest little piece of shit I have ever met. He was good at it too. Cut me down straight away and left me disarmed. All I wanted to do was have some chat with a small devil, maybe learn some dwarfy trivia and then be about my business.

It was only after complaining to the host that a little man made me cry that I learnt that he was hired to do just what he was doing; getting shitfaced and teasing people. Only thing was he thought he was a big person and started drinking glasses of rum that ozzie osbourne would wince at as being too ambitious. He thoroughly succeeded at the drunk part of his role.

Despite his obvious handicap of size the extreme amounts of booze initially only served to make him more brazen and frustrating as an antagonist. So much so that he went too far with a big guy dressed as Buzz Lightyear who proceeded to pick him up and throw him like a bag of cement into the pool. That got a really good reaction from the crowd. This cycle went on for while. The midget would booze, harass, and someone would throw him somewhere. Eventually drunkenness got the better of him and he passed out. But only after we got our monies worth out of the little devil. This is an actual photo of him, his name is max and he is a little c*nt.

















Back to the recent midget….. bearing in mind my previous encounter of midgetness I was a little apprehensive and wary being around a new midget. I d been hurt in the past and was cautious. I had no faith in midget kind at this stage. My gym routine continued to coincide with town midget alpha until I started playing footy and the gym schedule changed a bit. I saw less of him. But fate had other plans for us.

Also consider that he was a really ugly middle eastern looking midget. I was worried about sounding racist saying that but I m clearly not against bagging midgets so why stop there, racism here we come! He was greasy and hairy and ugly, big nose and long face. Middle eastern. Maybe even Turkish.

It started out again with a random sighting down town across a crowded street. To him I might have just seemed like any other reverse-midget, about 6 foot 2, cocky and always looking down on him. But this thought was quickly dispelled by a lightning strike of eye contact between me and the midget. It was electric. I couldn’t handle the power, I had to not only look away but turn away and walk away, trying not to run.

This meant that the little fucker knew what he was doing the past few months. There was recognition written all over his smug little fat ugly face. This meant he was knowingly putting himself near me and continuing to do so knowingly. Little shit. Freaked me right out. I had my first midget stalker.

Moral of the story. Stay away from midgets. I for one prefer the company of inverse or reverse midgets, bigjets if you will. You will find them more likely to be your height, be able to reach things for you and not fuckin stalk you for no apparent reason when you are new in town and freak you the shit out.

Vote one: Anyone tall.

Beards: Natures Make-up

This entry is inspired by the much maligned, the underrated, the always special; beard.

I’ve come to the (maybe misguided) conclusion that beards are the best thing in the world. Nearly, the best. They are in my top five. Please feel free to speculate what my top five would be.

I think the fact the beards exist at all is testament to their superiority, from an evolutionary perspective. Of course there are arguments that spring up to antagonise this but I’ll thank you not to post comments of an anti-beard nature around here. This will result in exclusion from the misty zone.

I think modern society’s tendency to shy away from beards is a new thing. Say in the last 25 years. Imagine how long beards were the bees knees for? Say 25 thousand years. That means anyone who argues against beards is in agreement with 0.001 % of human kind. That means you are wrong.





I think the pinnacle of a good beard is a good bit of colour change. I am biased towards a good bit of ginger. Not all ginger, and certainly not in combination with ginger up top (or below for that matter). A nice sophisticated ginger section. Some people prematurely grey in beardal zone for effect. I think it is supposed to attract the female eye to someone who is special and different and therefore evolutionarily superior. Its like a mane. Its like a deer’s antlers. Its like a crabs claws. And its warm and can act as something to wipe your hands on when cooking naked.

Beards are so special that one could argue that they should not be worn all the time. They are nature’s makeup for men. You should use a beard only for a special occasion. Every man looks, and more importantly feels better with a beard. The confidence and invulnerability factor is not essential to the true beard wearer. He doesn’t need it of course, but feels like sharing this inward sense of awesomeness outwardly. Maybe as a warning. Maybe as an invitation.

Paradoxically, the beard wearers allure maybe increased by the removal of his beard. Do not dwell on this seeming contradiction. This merely proves that the beardy bloke is a double agent, posing in the world of “shavers” to gain intelligence and get a break from the hordes of women he would otherwise have to satisfy.

Think about this next time you see a graceful beard wearer and you will agree, I am sure. Either that or you just read the rant of a man drunk on beardy power, blindly charging into the dangerous world of beard politics and popular opinion.

Nomenclature

Ok. This story is one of the reasons I have written this blog under a pseudonym. I think it makes for good reading, but potentially volatile career wise and some people may not appreciate the sense of humour in some cases.

But first of all I felt I needed a name. This little piece of silly was written in a crowded bus after a weeks skiing etc in Queenstown. I felt I was being pretty normal sitting there writing calmly into a PDA, but in retrospect probably looked like some sort of deranged bum grinning manically into my palm occasionally looking around furtively for conspirators.
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Bored on the bus trying to think up names for my possible blog alter ego, this in itself could constitute an entry.....

Dr. Cool McTuff: has all the elements I want but lacks subtlety and technically I am not a true md yet.

Grobag: again, contains some elements that hint at the filth etc that will surely follow, but I have used it in the past and may face legal battles if I re hash.

Porthos: the character always intrigued me, un original but worth a mention.

Padraig Rodriguez: always been curious what a red moustached spic would be capable of; would he use his power for good or silly? Potentially the best or worst of both worlds, would explain a lot if you think about it.....

Pugrand: made it up, sounds sort of like a glorified down syndrome stunt double. "Quick, Pugrand, run in front of that train and narrowly avoid death so (insert short actors name here) doesn't fill his nappy". Cousin to Pigrand, brother of Pugrette.

I think the tween next to me read some of that, she edged away for no reason.

Ultra bored, sorry in advance, but if I am going to have a good mental spew I need a fitting name.
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And that is how to fill in time on a bus. But as usual, I have another tangent to explore. Namely, the name of this entry and the name of this blog. Leads me to a good natured story of whimsy and good old fashioned romance. A tale for the whole family.

I had the good fortune to escort a colleague (an actual colleague, not just someone from my life who would cave in my head with a tyre iron for mentioning this story in a public accessible forum….) to a place that has good food and service and wine. A restaurant. She was charming, I was awkward. We discussed weighty contemporary issues and I felt that I did have a place in my heart for this person. Consider this noble sentiment later on in this recounting and it will sooth your venomous thoughts about my depravity. So the evening continued. I had “borrowed” a work vehicle to allow me to follow social forms when escorting the lady about town. Opening doors, laying my coat in the mud so she could keep her booties clean, that sort of stuff.

So the romance was reaching a crescendo. I was dropping the lady back to her car at our place of work so she could return home to rest and reflect on her night of good clean conversation and ponder the future. But aforementioned romance was creeping in and suffocating us both as we sat and said our respectful goodbyes. I leaned in and almost brotherly pecked the lady goodnight, as a gentleman would. She was understandably flushed and demurely backed away from my advances. So sitting in this dark car park, at work in a work vehicle feeling dejected and more then a little heartbroken I was caught by surprise by this lady.





She pounced like a starving cheetah. This gazelle was, willingly, I’ll admit, caught in the clutches of a wild animal that wanted to gorge. All rational thoughts of security guards and becoming a headline due to my sex related dismissal from work faded from my mind as this gorgeous animal tore me to shreds. In the restricting confines of the work car front seat clothes were efficiently discarded where necessary and a comfortable, though unconventional posture was achieved. A load bearing part of this was my hand on the steering wheel. I felt pretty cool at this stage. It was a very cold night and the car was fogged up to the max. giving the space a “misty” feel. Yes, that’s my link to the title. Very very flimsly I know.

Back to the misty cabin. Things went very well. The “meeting” in the carpark was a success, all parties were happy. I had to take a half time break and take an unpanted walk to seclusion to relieve myself. This, combined with the rocking of the car was starting to make me wary of detection. But I pushed these thoughts aside and resumed my work in the work car in the carpark of work. This was not very late at night, it was silly. But comfortableness with the load bearing steering wheel playing, you got it, the third wheel (!) was achieved once again. Now, as happens in events of this nature, an end had to occur. I am only human after all and this woman was driving me crazy. In a moment of lunacy, as things peaked for me, I moved my hand from the top of the steering wheel to the horn. So, imagine my feelings at this stage.

I felt immense pleasure, gut wrenching surprise as to why my climax had resulted in a really loud horn going off and as I realised what was happening, fear. I had visions of a security guard coming to find two half naked sweaty employees in a work vehicle after hours forced, grinning to give them up to the FBI for questioning. But above all I felt happy and thought this was hilarious. It was an accident, but I think that deep down some part of me must have known that it would be hilarious to adjust my hand at that exact moment and cause the panic.

The look on the ladies face was a twisted reflection of my sentiments. She had more of the fear I think. She was still beautiful, laughing and throwing her clothes on expecting at any second to be invaded by an old man carrying a torch. I was hysterically convulsing with laughter by now, defending my innocence.

No one got the sack that day and the title of a blog was born.

Anonymous Etiquette and Embracing Nihilism

Despite aforementioned resolutions to spare you the mundane details of my life I have decided to include a very hateable polar opposite. A dream sequence. Yes, I am also sometimes annoyed by those dickheads who feel compelled to divulge the details of their dreams and expect some ground breaking insight that will somehow make them stop pissing the bed or whatever their problem is. Having studied psychology I get this occasionally. About half the time I mess with the person who decides to push this particular button. You would do the same. Anyway, I just spent my first night in my brand new chocolate leather bed. Yes it is as cool as it sounds. But I think some Malaysian children must have died during its construction or something as I think it is haunted. I had a very vivid disturbing dream right before I woke up.

The dream took me a couple of coffees to shake off, the mojo of it really stayed with me. The dream involved me looking down at a toddler version of myself listening and feeling an intense sense of anticipation, like I was about to hear some prophetic news that would somehow be pivotal to my existence. This twisted visage of myself, that was really a combination of present day me and toddler me (yes, ugly), informed me (with the backing music as Madness: Welcome to the house of fun) in a solemn speech that all he wanted was to grow up to grow a moustache and a mullet. No shit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6ruVqtPVPA

I woke up and immediately pondered the meaning of this and came to the conclusion that it did not mean shit. It was a nothing dream with no implications. Anyone will tell you I like moustaches, no surprises there. The mullet and toddler thing, fucks me. It doesn’t mean shit. And I can t even remember the last time I heard that song. And this is where I got snagged. The dream didn’t mean anything, it is gone and leaves nothing more then a memory. And I thought, how is this any different from my life and the lives of those around me. I m not really that depressive and cynical. But a real nihilistic mood caught me this morning. Sure it did not manifest in anything more then me walking around the house nude a bit, not caring about anything. I had some coffee, perked up and put some clothes on. The mood passed.

But this nihilism intrigues me. And the only way I think most of us embrace it is when we are in anonymous situations. Then we truly do not give a fuck about anything and this in some ways is a beautiful thing. Of course I am not a nihilistic public masturbator. I nearly typed that I am normal, but didn’t for risk of losing all credibility. But I obey societies rules usually.

That dream may seem like a rickety segue into the filth that follows, but hey. I got to thinking on a regular social situation that comes up in most of our lives, involves anonymity and definitely involves letting go. Imagine a workplace. Say an office with about 15 colleagues or so. Everyone knows everyone, at least a bit. You are not anonymous usually. But in the bathroom when the cubicle doors are shut, you and the person next to you are anonymous. You start out a little shy, letting it all out slowly. Maybe a little sneaky squeaky one sneaks out. You might even have to cover your mouth to stop a burst of laughter. I’ve heard of people going to extreme lengths to ensure they avoid all audible noises. Taking the cake are the stories where a standoff has occurred. Neither wants to unload for risk of exposing themselves as a loud and therefore disgusting toilet user. Longest stand off I’ve heard of is nearly an hour. Imagine the hellish packages these two must have been anticipating (and the pain of resistance) to go for so long without doing their stuff. And these were blokes, imagine the female reactions, feel free to comment.




This stand off situation is best avoided by a Hiroshima effort as soon as you get in there. Blow the friggin base out of the toilet as soon as possible, end the war. Pre-emptive strike. Maybe even groan a little or whistle if you are particularly impressed with yourself. This will make your colleague feel relaxed and facilitate an economical dunny session. But, back to the point, the anonymity is the key here. All this flawless etiquette logic goes out the window if you both finish up at the same time and wink at each other while you are washing your hands. Try it out both ways and see which one ends well.

I feel really good about sharing this insight with the world. I feel like I have somehow contributed. Imagine how many people will be relaxed during work toilet sessions because of this. Millions.

No sex in this entry. No booze or drugs in this entry. Just a creamy shot of my brain juice for you to swallow down. It is running down your chin………