YO VINNIE,
I met this midget. At a strip joint. She and a few of her normal-sized stripper friends were getting off and the five of them came up to the five of us for a few extra drinks apres-sluttery and I got the midget. Things were going great, she was sitting on my lap and I was doing my ventriloquist act with my hand up her skirt and I was well on my way to fucking my first midget. Until I looked down and saw her stubby little fingers on my thigh, got too freaked out and bolted. Am I fag? -- Pint-Sized Panic (by email)

OK. OK. MAYBE YOU'RE RIGHT.

Dear Willie Wonka: Yes. Yes you are. A faggot. Sure, sure we understand your panic but this is probably very much like the panic associated with seeing a firmly figured package of man meatus. For those for whom this represents a temptation -- priests, Boy Scouts, Greeks -- yes, we see how this would present a REASONABLE temptation, like showtime at the fucking Boy's Town Follies. But likewise, with the midgets: she creeped you out either because she reminded you of a kid or because you place stubby freakish little fingers on par with the sort of imperfection that's thusfar kept you outta the arms of bag ladies.

On the first count, bravo to you, sir. Kids are not for Trix.

On the second, it must be said that just like crack hos, the Amish, and the 230-pound baldheaded bearded broad that Sal and I double-teamed, midgets need loads in the face too. As it is, her face went unloaded, you went home unlaid, and I just wasted five valuable load-bearing minutes of my life listening to a story that ended in neither loads or getting laid: a waste.

Now I ain't advocating you do that which doesn't please. I AM advocating you only share stories with us that resolve themselves in coconut surprises and the shocked-faces of onlookers.

Thank you.