Sing it Randy

Saint Patrick’s Day is tomorrow. To those of you inclined to publicly celebrate the occasion I will miss you. I won’t be there. I’ll be under the bed with sweaty palms and a racing heart mumbling incoherently. I used to love Saint Patrick’s Day. But not any more. The memory just... will…not…go…away.

Years ago BC and I found ourselves in JR’s in Dallas on Saint Patrick’s Day. It was early afternoon and the joint was filled with the usual S & M stand and model crowd. Only it was rowdier than usual due to the occasion. I was sporting quite a buzz and having a great time.

I was talking and laughing with the bartender. BC was standing next to me. I heard him burst into laughter and say “Kiss my lover. He loves the Irish.” I turned, looking for the person he had just offered me to. Only there was no one there. “Who the hell are you talking to?” BC just stood there grinning like an idiot.

Then it happened.

I felt a tug on my pants leg. A persistent tug. I looked down to see a little person. A real little person, a dwarf. She was dressed in a leprechaun outfit complete with beard, hat, and curly toed shoes. And she was drunk. Very, very drunk.

“Kizz me. I’m Irish” she slurred.

I have one phobia. A single irrational fear. And it is dwarfs. Maybe it is because I’m so tall. Their yin freaks out my yang. I still squirm during the Wizard of Oz. The movie, Freaks, gave me nightmares for months. It may be dumb and it’s not PC. But there it is, fuck it. And BC knew it. Bastard.

I smiled weakly. “No, that’s OK” I replied.

“Bend over an’ kizz me you tall SOB” she persisted.

“No. Really. I…uh…don’t kiss…er,women.” I whimpered. Icy sweat formed on my upper lip, between my shoulder blades, and began rolling down my spine.

“‘f you don’t bend over ’m comin’ up there then” she snarled and proceeded to climb the rungs of the barstool on my other side.

“Get me the fuck out of here” I hissed to BC.

“Kiss the sweet leprechaun first” he smirked. Bastard.

Before I could run away the dwarf grabbed my face and kissed me. With tongue. Then a flashbulb popped. BC had paid the photographer to take a picture. That photo appeared in the next copy of TWIT, the Texas gay rag. The look on my face is one of wild eyed abject terror. *shudder* BC didn’t get any that night or on any succeeding Saint Patrick’s Day. Bastard.

So all of you have a great time tomorrow. Go out. Drink your green beer. I’ll be counting dust bunnies.

Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
To live

They got little hands
Little eyes
They walk around
Tellin’ great big lies
They got little noses
And tiny little teeth
They wear platform shoes
On their nasty little feet

Well, I don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
`round here