I love midgets. Now, I've never met or befriended one, nor have I (for lack of trying) courted and fucked one. I don't have a tawdry shorty fetish. In all of my accumulated pornography viewing, I've never laid eyes on a vertically challenged cutie getting impaled on a pork spear or seen a micro-mini John Holmes thrust and parry his way through a top-heavy Keebler elf. There's no real strong basis for it, but, for whatever reason, right behind my patented, proto-nerdy affection for monkeys, bears, robots and zombies, midgets fascinate the fuck out of me.
They're like super-cute, SD anime characters, only corporeal and not fictitious! This is one of the many reasons I continue to despise Vince MacMahon.
Being a "smart mark" (wrestling jargon for an enlightened fanboy, one who knows how fake wrestling is but watches anyway) I am more than versed in the PT Barnum aspect of the biz. I understand how the rather wide umbrella of "sports entertainment" allows professional wrestling to operate as a bastard amalgamation of full-contact physical combat, low-brow theater, and subversive circus high-wire act. I've long since gotten used to the WWE's owner ingratiating himself into his own product with incessant ease. It's like if you were to take that moment at the end of a football game when the usually off-to-the-sidelines coach is victoriously doused with a huge gatorade dispenser, only chopped into sashimi thin slices and systematically replacing the meat of the pro-wrestling burger.
(Yes, in this sandwich metaphor, actual wrestling matches are burger meat, event-pumping promos are condiments, and the prurient vignettes of stripper-cum-"divas" dry humping each other in mud-covered non-title bouts is the melted cheese.)
For years, Vince has turned dealings with his family and employees into an episodic and half-baked soap opera. His wife "divorced" him. His son "fought" for control of the company. His daughter married his top star, quotation marks purposely left out because it really fucking happened. He even wrestled fellow overpaid, under-coiffed megalomaniac Donald Trump. Just because something is sort of funny and incites an inexplicable ratings bump doesn't mean you should recreate it on a weekly basis, a note that could be taken to heart by pretty much anyone who produces television for a living. Irregardless, The Vince Show trudges on.
Lately he's been embroiled in a storyline involving Hornswoggle, his illegitimate son who is also a leprechaun.
The angle involving MacMahon's mysterious offspring was supposed to end with up-and-coming wrestler Ken Kennedy being named the new heir to the faux-Shakespearean throne, but internet leaks demanded a new ending. (Familiar territory for anyone who remembers DC Comics changing the end of an early 90s crossover to reveal that maniacal maestro Monarch was really...Hawk from Hawk and Dove???) Now, Vince spends a half hour every week humiliating and abusing his Irish, gold-guarding, midget son.
He puts him into matches with full-sized wrestlers.
He forces him to kiss his bare, wrinkled, white ass.
He even put him into a steel cage match and proceeded to let John Bradshaw Layfield (a wreslter who most recently resembled a post-Saw Cary Elwes on a cheeseburger bender) toss his tiny ass around a ring.
The abuse is humiliating and the humiliation is abusive. Unfortunately, both are basely hilarious.
Wrestling taps into a part of the male psyche, one that overrides any erudition and breeding in favor of that which is undeniable. No matter how smart or sensitive the guy, a monkey flinging shit at someone is funny. IQ has nothing to do with how cool a zombie movie looks, or how hot Jessica Alba is, and, loathe as I am to admit it, my yin for midgets doesn't make one getting heaved into the wall of a steel cage any less amusing.
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