midget blood

So the night before last I was carrying, with the help of my buddy Big Country, a very bloody midget with a broken ankle down the steps of the stage and hoping that my clothes weren't going to be all bloody. Why was I worried about the midget blood? Not because I have anything against midgets, but honestly, and perhaps this is just as bad, I knew what the midgets were doing with the woman they were traveling with. She looked like a porn star, and may have been, or may have aspired to be anyway; her large fake breasts were on display the entire evening and the rest of her outfit fit the bill. Her role in the evening's performance was geared toward creating that impression. And I knew what she was letting the midgets do to her. It was right backstage after all, and the door was wide open. So in the back of my mind, as I'm bent over with his arm around my neck, was the idea that perhaps I did not want to be covered in this particular midget's blood. It did not stop me from helping carry him down the steps however. I'm a compassionate sort of person, and my first instinct is usually to offer my assistance to anyone who needs it. Never let it be said that I turned my back on a bloody midget. What was strange about the whole thing, in retrospect, was that it didn't really seem all that strange. But now, in addition to adjunct professor of philosophy and numerous other poverty-level positions, I can add "crowd control: midget wrestling" to my resume. Just another day in the life of the working man.