Middleburgh Heights
13 May '18 13:20While driving to a familiar destination recently, I inadvertently took a wrong turn and found myself on an unfamiliar street.
Easy correction, I thought, drive down to the next intersection, take a left, get back to the route you know.
Thusly distracted, I paid little attention to the suburban businesses lining the foreign street.
Something odd caught my attention--- albeit after the fact, as I was slightly speeding to resume travel to my original destination.
Actually, it wasn’t a storefront which caught my eye, but rather one of the half dozen 3’ sidewalk sandwich boards vying for attention along the sidewalk adjacent to the street.
Eye-catching on account of the first one-word line: “MIDGET”
Glaringly offensive, the immediate reaction of ‘How dare they…’ just as quickly cooled by the realization/assumption how the sign most likely must read “MIDGET SOFTBALL” or “MIDGET SOCCER” or maybe even “MIDGET FOOTBALL” for those spring enthusiasts wanting to revenge their own failed athletic careers through their four and five year old budding offspring.
Certainly in today’s hand-wringing worry-fest race to be the least offensive possible, no one would actually use so rude a word to describe people.
Would they?
The mind works quickly in order to eliminate the shocking, the glaring, all the while secretly wanting just that scandalous thing: a rooftop-shouting lunatic unselfconsciously trumpeting random and indiscriminate offense... what otherwise polite people silently mutter, perhaps, but emphatically in the lowest possible voice, if breathed out at all.
Despite my mind’s initial grace, there were to be no calming descriptors trailing the knee-jerk offensive “MIDGET” rather instead, something which so further distracted me from my determined path that only by consulting the rear view mirror could I determine which of my eye or my brain were playing the trick on me.
One or the other (couldn’t be both) was relaying the message on the sandwich board as:
...and there was no way that could be the case.
Yet the rear view mirror confirmed sleight-of-hand was not in play.
What was conveyed in backward reflection, matched the other side.
Unapologetically, too.
A rooftop-shouting lunatic in the shape of a white sandwich board with black blocked letters, screaming about midgets.
Weird as it was, my mind was now tasked with resolving how such a thing could be anything but offensive, how this could somehow work out after all, allowing the universe to refrain from collapsing upon itself in collective embarrassment.
It was a struggle, yet after a frantic search and perhaps a bit of pretzel logic I landed on the idea that there exists such a classification of the dachshund variety of canine which denotes a diminutive body structure, and this was a contest for just such a dog.
Yes, that had to be the ticket.
And that is exactly what I told myself why I really needed to check it out once my task a few blocks over was completed.
Nagging questions flooded my mind.
Are there so many miniature dachshunds around, their owners are able to hold contests?
How do dogs contest?
When dogs contest, is one really eaten in the end?
And then the thought, the part that likes to hear from lunatics:
What if it wasn’t dogs, but rather men?
Men with micro-appendages willing (and able) to humiliate themselves publicly?
How many times in one’s life would such an opportunity present itself?
Whatever I had on the agenda for the rest of the afternoon would be forced to wait: I had to find out what in the world was going on in an otherwise nondescript bar in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the block, in the middle of Middleburg Heights, in the middle of Ohio, in the middle of America… appropriately named Slim & Chubby’s.
This had to be seen.
My task completed, I traced the errant route back to S&C's and--- after one last time of confirming the content of the sign, both sides--- pulled into a parking space conspicuously one business over.
If it was that most outlandish of the several imagined scenarios, I gave myself the ‘out’ of confusion: were I spotted within the periphery of such a scandalous train wreck, I could simply explain I had wandered into it by accident while looking for the House of Candles next door.
Other curious and intrepid souls were similarly cautiously filing into the venue; at 1:47 PM--- thirteen minutes before the ‘big show,’ I followed suit.
Relieved or perhaps disappointed, the master of ceremonies revealed that public humiliation was not on the menu today: this was not be a mini-sausage competition, but rather…
"Folks, welcome to the dog show."
Of some kind.
Another disappointment followed, too: these were just regular ol’ dachshunds, not a miniature among them.
They were cute and all, but def not “MIDGET.”
Truth in advertising, be damned.
Whatever.
The one remaining curiosity: what constitutes a contest for these lovable weiner dogs?
It was quite the show and tell.
Six dogs, put through their paces in three categories, with an announced fourth “deciding round,” to determine the winner.
Before I get into the categories, it’s important to know how much thought and effort went into the actual production.
Despite the bush league sandwich board used for advertising, this was a professional set-up with lights, stage props, integrated sound system and the whole spiel.
I had a hard time figuring out whether they were serious or trying to be ironic.
And here’s the thing with that much irony: when are you supposed to laugh?
If at all?
It felt as though this was the level of irony at which one is expected to act as impassively as possible, no hint of silliness.
Or it just might be a completely serious event.
Either way, I adopted a no-laughter stance and opted to not break character… just in case.
First category they called Just Dog and each of them were brought in turn to center stage for four poses: head-shot (facing the audience), doggy right, doggy left and then a hindquarter shot, all to show off the animals’ glossy shine, courtesy of a local groomer, one of several sponsors.
Call it a six-way tie.
Next category was announced as Posh Puppy Runway, sponsored by another local pet supplier, who provided some very inventive outfits for the pooches to strut out in.
The one dressed as Rich Uncle Pennybags (the Monopoly man) was the clear winner: the monocle really got the crowd engaged.
Third judging was for Genius Pet Tricks which was more a lesson in patience than the discovery and presentation of any creative prodigies, and this round went to the one who ‘kinda’ sounded like she was singing Heatwave’s 1976 song “Always and Forever,” even though she sounded more like a dog unsure if she was going to get into trouble for barking.
The final "deciding round" was where the game went sublime.
"WOW" they called it: Weiner Oiled Wrestling.
Wow, indeed.
Monopoly Man and Heatwave faced off on either side of a kiddie pool filled with organic non-GMO coconut oil.
Uncertain why we needed to know the genetic makeup of the oil, unless the producers felt the threat of bad press or some such.
For the whole shebang, these two weiner dogs were going to wrestle in oil, somehow winner take all.
Who is leaving with this on the line?
After all this quality entertainment complete with excellent production values, I felt highly compelled to stick around and witness them crown the winner.
No one in the crowd of once-uncertain/now-steadfast enthusiasts even glanced toward the exit door.
Besides bragging rights and proportionately-sized matching trophies, the grand prize was completely fitting: hand-tailored matching Givenchy jogging suits for winning weiner and owner, in their choice of two colors.
That sounds expensive--- and they truly are--- but the contest’s producers were able to get a reduced rate on the grand prize suit, on account of the need for less fabric than usual.
Oddly enough, of the six weiner dog owners, not a single one of them was any taller than 4’ 9”.
Totally could have happened...
Easy correction, I thought, drive down to the next intersection, take a left, get back to the route you know.
Thusly distracted, I paid little attention to the suburban businesses lining the foreign street.
Something odd caught my attention--- albeit after the fact, as I was slightly speeding to resume travel to my original destination.
Actually, it wasn’t a storefront which caught my eye, but rather one of the half dozen 3’ sidewalk sandwich boards vying for attention along the sidewalk adjacent to the street.
Eye-catching on account of the first one-word line: “MIDGET”
Glaringly offensive, the immediate reaction of ‘How dare they…’ just as quickly cooled by the realization/assumption how the sign most likely must read “MIDGET SOFTBALL” or “MIDGET SOCCER” or maybe even “MIDGET FOOTBALL” for those spring enthusiasts wanting to revenge their own failed athletic careers through their four and five year old budding offspring.
Certainly in today’s hand-wringing worry-fest race to be the least offensive possible, no one would actually use so rude a word to describe people.
Would they?
The mind works quickly in order to eliminate the shocking, the glaring, all the while secretly wanting just that scandalous thing: a rooftop-shouting lunatic unselfconsciously trumpeting random and indiscriminate offense... what otherwise polite people silently mutter, perhaps, but emphatically in the lowest possible voice, if breathed out at all.
Despite my mind’s initial grace, there were to be no calming descriptors trailing the knee-jerk offensive “MIDGET” rather instead, something which so further distracted me from my determined path that only by consulting the rear view mirror could I determine which of my eye or my brain were playing the trick on me.
One or the other (couldn’t be both) was relaying the message on the sandwich board as:
“MIDGET
WEINER DOG
CONTEST”
2 PM
...and there was no way that could be the case.
Yet the rear view mirror confirmed sleight-of-hand was not in play.
What was conveyed in backward reflection, matched the other side.
Unapologetically, too.
A rooftop-shouting lunatic in the shape of a white sandwich board with black blocked letters, screaming about midgets.
Weird as it was, my mind was now tasked with resolving how such a thing could be anything but offensive, how this could somehow work out after all, allowing the universe to refrain from collapsing upon itself in collective embarrassment.
It was a struggle, yet after a frantic search and perhaps a bit of pretzel logic I landed on the idea that there exists such a classification of the dachshund variety of canine which denotes a diminutive body structure, and this was a contest for just such a dog.
Yes, that had to be the ticket.
And that is exactly what I told myself why I really needed to check it out once my task a few blocks over was completed.
Nagging questions flooded my mind.
Are there so many miniature dachshunds around, their owners are able to hold contests?
How do dogs contest?
When dogs contest, is one really eaten in the end?
And then the thought, the part that likes to hear from lunatics:
What if it wasn’t dogs, but rather men?
Men with micro-appendages willing (and able) to humiliate themselves publicly?
How many times in one’s life would such an opportunity present itself?
Whatever I had on the agenda for the rest of the afternoon would be forced to wait: I had to find out what in the world was going on in an otherwise nondescript bar in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the block, in the middle of Middleburg Heights, in the middle of Ohio, in the middle of America… appropriately named Slim & Chubby’s.
This had to be seen.
My task completed, I traced the errant route back to S&C's and--- after one last time of confirming the content of the sign, both sides--- pulled into a parking space conspicuously one business over.
If it was that most outlandish of the several imagined scenarios, I gave myself the ‘out’ of confusion: were I spotted within the periphery of such a scandalous train wreck, I could simply explain I had wandered into it by accident while looking for the House of Candles next door.
Other curious and intrepid souls were similarly cautiously filing into the venue; at 1:47 PM--- thirteen minutes before the ‘big show,’ I followed suit.
Relieved or perhaps disappointed, the master of ceremonies revealed that public humiliation was not on the menu today: this was not be a mini-sausage competition, but rather…
"Folks, welcome to the dog show."
Of some kind.
Another disappointment followed, too: these were just regular ol’ dachshunds, not a miniature among them.
They were cute and all, but def not “MIDGET.”
Truth in advertising, be damned.
Whatever.
The one remaining curiosity: what constitutes a contest for these lovable weiner dogs?
It was quite the show and tell.
Six dogs, put through their paces in three categories, with an announced fourth “deciding round,” to determine the winner.
Before I get into the categories, it’s important to know how much thought and effort went into the actual production.
Despite the bush league sandwich board used for advertising, this was a professional set-up with lights, stage props, integrated sound system and the whole spiel.
I had a hard time figuring out whether they were serious or trying to be ironic.
And here’s the thing with that much irony: when are you supposed to laugh?
If at all?
It felt as though this was the level of irony at which one is expected to act as impassively as possible, no hint of silliness.
Or it just might be a completely serious event.
Either way, I adopted a no-laughter stance and opted to not break character… just in case.
First category they called Just Dog and each of them were brought in turn to center stage for four poses: head-shot (facing the audience), doggy right, doggy left and then a hindquarter shot, all to show off the animals’ glossy shine, courtesy of a local groomer, one of several sponsors.
Call it a six-way tie.
Next category was announced as Posh Puppy Runway, sponsored by another local pet supplier, who provided some very inventive outfits for the pooches to strut out in.
The one dressed as Rich Uncle Pennybags (the Monopoly man) was the clear winner: the monocle really got the crowd engaged.
Third judging was for Genius Pet Tricks which was more a lesson in patience than the discovery and presentation of any creative prodigies, and this round went to the one who ‘kinda’ sounded like she was singing Heatwave’s 1976 song “Always and Forever,” even though she sounded more like a dog unsure if she was going to get into trouble for barking.
The final "deciding round" was where the game went sublime.
"WOW" they called it: Weiner Oiled Wrestling.
Wow, indeed.
Monopoly Man and Heatwave faced off on either side of a kiddie pool filled with organic non-GMO coconut oil.
Uncertain why we needed to know the genetic makeup of the oil, unless the producers felt the threat of bad press or some such.
For the whole shebang, these two weiner dogs were going to wrestle in oil, somehow winner take all.
Who is leaving with this on the line?
After all this quality entertainment complete with excellent production values, I felt highly compelled to stick around and witness them crown the winner.
No one in the crowd of once-uncertain/now-steadfast enthusiasts even glanced toward the exit door.
Besides bragging rights and proportionately-sized matching trophies, the grand prize was completely fitting: hand-tailored matching Givenchy jogging suits for winning weiner and owner, in their choice of two colors.
That sounds expensive--- and they truly are--- but the contest’s producers were able to get a reduced rate on the grand prize suit, on account of the need for less fabric than usual.
Oddly enough, of the six weiner dog owners, not a single one of them was any taller than 4’ 9”.
Totally could have happened...
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