“I got a small package in the mail today, and I thought it was the midget stripper I bought off eBay. But it was just a pair of shoes I ordered. Didn’t matter, I still made them dance for me.”

“If I were among midgets I didn’t know, I’d be afraid they’d see I was uncomfortable making small talk.”

“Today I found yet more evidence that I’m a lunatic. The proof came in a package in the mail. The sender? Myself. The evidence? Tampered with.”

“At my bachelor party I had Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” play on repeat, while I enjoyed the spectacle of a midget stripper dressed like jet fuel (Rocket Man).”

“Dancing? Not only do I have two left feet, but they’re different sizes. And I don’t put them in shoes—I store them in glass jars in my basement.”

“I want to mail my mailman something. He always brings me mail, yet I never give him any mail. Maybe he will appreciate the thought, or maybe he will feel I am making more work for him.”

“I am one pair of roses away from the grave,” I told the midget with the twelve-inch erection. It wasn’t his—he was just holding it for a friend (that impressive penis belonged to a much taller man). Ah, but that’s life, no?”