Mmmm... Pinky's Spaghetti! |
“Why are they talking like that? Like… in those high voices?” asked Lulu as she sat slurping up her spaghetti whilst sitting on the floor in the lounge room tonight.
We were watching some jockeys on the telly talking about the Melbourne Cup, which takes place tomorrow (in case you’ve been hiding under a rock or you don't live in Australia).
“They have high voices because they’re small and they have small vocal cords,” I answered knowledgeably. “They have small everything.”
Scotto sniggered.
“What?” I stared at him.
“I meant hands!” said Scotto. “They have small hands. Maybe they have helium balloons off stage they keep sucking on.”
This is very politically incorrect I know. My friend Kyles will be up in arms about this post.
“They have high voices because they’re small and they have small vocal cords,” I answered knowledgeably. “They have small everything.”
Scotto sniggered.
“What?” I stared at him.
“I meant hands!” said Scotto. “They have small hands. Maybe they have helium balloons off stage they keep sucking on.”
This is very politically incorrect I know. My friend Kyles will be up in arms about this post.
It’s... ‘shortist’.
Look… I’m not criticising small people. My uncle was a jockey. My mother’s side of the family are all notoriously under five footers. There’s a famous family story about my 'four foot eleven' Granddad Jo, slipping into a sideshow at the local agricultural show in the fifties and all the ‘pygmies’ (gawd knows what appallingly politically incorrect sideshows they had going on then) halting their act to stop and stare at him, gawking at his unusual lack of height. They aggressively pointed their spears at him and began to yell in hysterical, accusatory tones… they had to bustle him out, so the story goes.
I’m a good five foot six inches tall, at least five inches on my diminutive mother... and my own kids eclipsed me in the height stakes years ago.
Look… I’m not criticising small people. My uncle was a jockey. My mother’s side of the family are all notoriously under five footers. There’s a famous family story about my 'four foot eleven' Granddad Jo, slipping into a sideshow at the local agricultural show in the fifties and all the ‘pygmies’ (gawd knows what appallingly politically incorrect sideshows they had going on then) halting their act to stop and stare at him, gawking at his unusual lack of height. They aggressively pointed their spears at him and began to yell in hysterical, accusatory tones… they had to bustle him out, so the story goes.
I’m a good five foot six inches tall, at least five inches on my diminutive mother... and my own kids eclipsed me in the height stakes years ago.
What the hell’s happening? Each generation is overtaking the last. And it’s not a new thing. Try going into a house made in the seventeenth century. You’ll scone yourself on the door frames. The beds were so short you’d have to saw off your feet to get a cramp-free night’s sleep.
I mean… just how tall is the human race going to get?
And who will be the jockeys then?
They’ll have to invent really big horses or something.
My tip for the Melbourne Cup?
Mutual Regard!
Protectionist
What's your tip?
I mean… just how tall is the human race going to get?
And who will be the jockeys then?
They’ll have to invent really big horses or something.
My tip for the Melbourne Cup?
Protectionist
What's your tip?