Skip to main content

Dialogo sopra: The midget pornstar

 “Yeah, and he loves midget porn”

“I absolutely do not!”

“Dude, shut up. Your favourite pornstar is a midget”

“She’s not a midget, fool”

“Wait, how do you know who his favourite pornstar is?”

“Nigga she’s over 5 feet tall, at least”

“So, she’s a tall midget. But she’s still a midget”

“Shut up dude. There’s no such thing as a tall midget”

“Yeah there is. You know Mountain guy from Game of Thrones?” 

“He’s a midget?”

“No dumbass, he’s a fucking HUGE normal person. So, it’s only possible that there are 5 feet tall midgets, equivalent to him in midget world.”

“But isn’t he like Icelandic or something? And everyone there is like 7 feet tall, man.”

“I wonder if the pipes match the building”

“What?”

 “It’s like if the carpets match the drapes. Except with size”

“Dude that’s gross”

“I knew you were a faggot.”

“I’m not, you morons. It was an honest curiosity…”

“Yeah, curiosity to suck a dick”

“Fuck you!”

“Nope”

“No thanks” 

“Assholes”

“Midget lover”

“SHE’S NOT A FUCKING MIDGET!”

“Wait, how do you know she’s a midget?”

“It’s those legs man, the proportions are fucked up. Her thighs are like huge, and her bone structure is all over the place.”

“It’s called being thick. Look it up sometimes.”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. I KNOW what a thick woman is. That is not thick. That’s a fucking midget.”

“And who made you the midget specialist?”

“The same guy who turned your ass into a midget loving faggot.”

“Asshole”

“Dude, I could show her picture to a midget specialist and he would tell you straightaway that she is a midget.”

“She. Is. Not. A. Midget! And there’s no such thing as a midget specialist. And I only like her because she has red hair.”

“Bullshit! Bull. Shit. She isn’t even a natural red head”

“Yes she is.”

“Dude her hair is fucking magenta! It’s fake as fuck”

“It’s red, you blind fuck”

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Peter Principle and the (Middle) Managerial Trap

If you are in any managerial position (thanks to promotions) and this is the first time you’re hearing of the Peter Principle, then you are already a lost cause.  Close this tab and go back to scrolling Instagram reels. Bye-bye. According to Wikipedia (remember that old relic, before ChatGPT became the de facto encyclopedia? Remember encyclopedia? Never mind). According to Wikipedia, the Peter Principle “observes that people in a hierarchy tend to rise to 'a level of respective incompetence’”, which means your promotions are based on how good you are at your current role. You continue to rise the rungs of corporate till you reach a position where you, and you will, suck at your job. At some point in your career, you will end up rotting away at a level you are least competent at; some place where you barely scrape by, unsure of where you’re faltering because the barometer for quality is hidden behind a thick veil of your own incompetence. Hence, the burnout.  And the desperate ...

Clubhouse. CoWin. China.

If you feel an odd sense of deja vu while reading this piece, then you've spent too much time switching between Facebook and Clubhouse. Unless you've been living underground or in a home with ACT broadband, you know what Clubhouse is - it is where many people can have their Mann ki Baat at once. And Facebook has turned into a platform to critique, analyse and make fun of discussions that happen on Clubouse. Congrats Clubhouse, you just replaced the Indian Government, at least as far as Facebook discourses go. Clubhouse is more or less an impulsive, live podcast session - an open space where everyone is made to feel like Joe Rogan. But no one talks about DMT or shaved gorillas or MMA or shaved gorillas doing MMA while on DMT. But it always does sound like everyone is on something stronger than the devil's lettuce. Maybe you need that to hear your own thoughts over the din of uncomprehensive ramblings and mouth-breathing noises. Speaking of noises, Saudi Arabia restricted the...

The Shadow of a Dead Hound

I was at my desk trying very hard to not pass out from the sweltering Bangalore summer heat when trouble came knocking at my door. She was wearing a wide brimmed hat and a pair of big sunglasses, which obscured her face just as much as the long, black woollen poncho obscured her figure. Just looking at her made me sweat a little more. "I need you to find a man." she said in a thick, raspy voice. She was no stranger to whiskey and cigarettes. "The marriage bureau is in the next road, lady" I said, knowing very well what she meant. But it's not every day that a poor, private dick gets to chat up a pretty lass. I wanted to make this last as long as possible. "Please mister, this is no time for jokes." she said, nervousness slipping past her sandpapery voice. Maybe it was the way she said it, but I immediately cut the crap and up straight. "Does this man have a name?" She fished out a glossy eight by ten from her purse and slid it acro...