We all have dreams. Martin Luther King dreamt of racial harmony. Larry Hagman dreamt of Jeannie. For over a decade, I dreamt of fucking a midget. One weekend in July of 2006, I finally achieved my dream. It went down like this:
I was at the gym when I got this text message from my buddy DrunkasaurusRex. He likes to play with my emotions, so I never take his text messages seriously:
5:51pm DrunkRex: There is a midget convention at the hilton in milwaukee here with my girlfriend and [soylentgreen] is here too.
5:52pm Tucker: Fuck you
5:53pm Drunkrex: Im dead serious
5:54pm Tucker: I hate you
5:56pm Drunkrex: Soylent has a free roundtrip ticket
6:00pm Tucker: STOP TEASING
He called me a few minutes later, when I was at home, wiping off the sweat and about to cook dinner.
DrunkRex “Did you get my message? I am in Milwaukee with my girlfriend…and there is a midget convention in town this weekend.”
Tucker “I got your fucking message. Come on man, stop playing.”
DrunkRex “Tucker, I am DEAD serious. They are everywhere. It’s like the circus and The Wizard of Oz are in town at the same time. I swear on my life there are hundreds of midgets here.”
[10 second pause]
Tucker “I am on the next flight.”
It took me about 40 seconds to throw clothes into a duffle bag. Another 20 seconds to sprint out the door and onto Park Avenue. I was in a cab to La Guardia within two minutes of getting the call. The TV and lights were still on in my apartment, I’d left the steak I was going to eat for dinner thawing in the sink, and I was still covered in gym sweat.
None of that mattered; I was finally going to fuck a midget.
In the cab, I was so excited I could barely breathe. I called all my best friends, screaming incoherent babbles about sex with little people. The call to Junior (from “The Vegas Story,” which is only published in "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell") was the best:
Junior “What is wrong with you? Why not just get a midget hooker and be done with it?”
Tucker “FUCK THAT. Just because you buy Dwight Gooden’s World Series ring off Ebay doesn’t mean that you were on the ’86 Mets. Some things you can only claim if you have earned them. MIDGET PUSSY, HERE I COME!!”
I was more excited about this than I was when my book hit the New York Times best seller list. I felt like a six year old on the night before Christmas.
At the airport and in line for my ticket, I am forced to fly Midwest Airlines because they are the only airline that cares enough about Milwaukee to fly there. A very nice, very Midwestern couple is in front of me. The man’s shirt has a picture of cheese on it.
Tucker “You guys going to Milwaukee?”
Guy “Yes sir, heading home after a vacation.”
Tucker “Did you know there are midgets in Milwaukee?”
The man and his wife are silent and confused.
Tucker “HUNDREDS OF THEM!”
They turn around and mumble something about crazy New Yorkers. Whatever, they’ve never fucked a midget, they don’t matter.
The flight was nearly intolerable; my mind was spinning with questions. How do you pick up a midget? Are you allowed to physically pick them up? What is the etiquette for dealing with a midget? When you hug them, can you hold them tight like a teddy bear, and promise to pet them and love them? Do they get pissed if you set your drink on top of their head? No one really talks about this.
