12% BEER
Hit On By A Midget
  I got hit on by a midget the other day. He lives in my apartment complex.

I'm not afraid of midgets, I just feel a little intimidated by them. I dont' make eye contact because I feel that I may be offending them with my incredible height. As if looking at them is a way of saying, "I will step on you and then clean you off the bottom of my Cons with a very sharp stick."

So I'm outside in the 'rock garden' of my apartment, pacing around, reading an old Newsweek and I sense that the midget from upstairs is approaching. You can always tell when he's coming close, it sounds like someone is running at you, but then you realize that he's walking at a normal pace. His legs are just short and it just sounds like he's running.

I don't look up from my periodical. I make sure to look as relaxed and comfortable as possible even though my ass is tightening and starting to shred my panites with stress.

He walks up the stairs. I wish I could have a .wav file play you the sound of him walking upstairs. It's just a totally different sound than non-midgets walking up stairs. More use of the handrail, a little bit more panting.

When he reached the landing I hear him stop. I keep pacing around the rock garden, not lifting my head once. Then I hear him say,

"Hey there pretty thang."

I panic. I know I have to look up. So I do. And there I see the midget from upstairs, totally full force in his stud stance, midget arms raised and leaning on the top railing. Midget head pressed between the bars. Midget mullet (did I mention he has a mullet? Yeah. He does. And a roommate that drives a motorcycle. He sometimes catches rides with him. I'm not joking.) blowing in the hot Texas wind.

"Hey.," I answer-not prolonging eye contact as not to encourage him.

"What's a pretty gal like yourself standing out here all alone on such a nice day?"

"Um. Just reading a magazine. Waiting for some friends to pick me up.," I lied.

"Well if they don't show up, you let me know."

"Ha. Ha. Will do." I then can't stand it anymore. I can't stand how uncomfortable I feel and how I know that he's undressing me with his midget eyes. I'm not wearing clean underwear. "Have a good one.," I mumble.

Then I run inside. No, I fast walk inside, because running would prove to him that I was feeling awkward. Actually, it was more of a quick jog.

I lock my door and then it hits me:

I just got hit on by a midget.

Then my mind gets a little overwhelmed and I start thinking how maybe, perhaps, this will be the man I marry. And how I will have to relate to all my guests at my midget wedding how me and Midget Mullet first met. "He called me Pretty Thang. Look, I've got it tattoed right here on my thigh. It's his nickname for me." And then they'll ask me what I call him and I'll say, "Short Stack- 'cause he's short, but man oh man, is he stacked." I really don't know what that means, but when you're married to a midget- do you really need to have a logical thought pattern?

And then I wonder what he's thinking about at that very moment and the only thing that comes to mind is midget masturbation.

I freak out and go take a shower to wash the experience off of me.

But I will never feel clean again.


Maybe by tomorrow. I don't know how long it takes to get over a midget experience like this one... but I'm guessing it's at least a 72 hour waiting period.

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Copyright 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004 L.Leroy