Peacocks

Why can’t short guys just be short guys?

I wouldn’t want to be a short guy, but it seems to me there’s nothing particularly wrong with being a short guy, other than the fact that you maybe can’t reach things in your house without standing on a chair. There’s nothing really wrong with standing on chairs to reach things, either, because one does what one has to do in order to accomplish what one needs to accomplish.

It also seems to me that if you shoot yourself full of steroids, fall asleep in the tanning booth, then walk around with your chest puffed out in the style of the New York Napoleonic short guy, you’re calling exponentially more attention to the fact that you’re a short guy than you would by simply leading the quiet, non-confrontational existence of the common short guy. We need more common short guys in New York. We need less Napoleonic ones.

You’re short, you’re bald, you’re loud, you’re stupid, you dress like a retard and you’re wearing too much jewelry. This is why you have to give girls cocaine in order to get laid.

Every club in New York is packed to the rafters with these little rooster fellas, and bouncers can’t stand them. Women don’t seem to like them much, either. On any given night, they constitute at least 40-50% of the male population in the room. I don’t like them because they’re at the club. I don’t think they should be at the club. They should be home reading books, practicing proper diction and learning some manners instead of wasting their time trying to impress people by inhaling deeply and pretending they have excessively developed upper back muscles.

Maybe if they had something to say and could say it properly, in context, with the requisite measure of decorum, these New York Napoleonic short guys could actually talk women into taking their clothes off and leaving their vaginas undefended. I can’t say with absolute certainty whether this is indeed the case, but it seems to work fairly well for those of us who don’t feel the need to overcompensate twenty-four hours a day.

I called someone “Napoleon” tonight after dragging him out of a lounge by the throat. I dragged him by the throat because he was “talking shit.” He was a head shorter than me. He told me he was going to “fuck” me “up,” so I needed to show him, immediately, that such an act was not within the range of his physical capabilities. He waited until I walked back inside, then told me I was “lucky.”

Only in the genetic sense, I suppose.