Midget Racing Quotes

I have finally taught Dean that he can do anything he wants, become mayor of Denver, marry a millionairess, or become the greatest poet since Rimbaud. But he keeps rushing out to see the midget auto races

I have finally taught Dean that he can do anything he wants, become mayor of Denver, marry a millionaires, or become the greatest poet since Rimbaud. But he keeps rushing out to see the midget auto races. I go with him.

In Dream Street there are many theatrical hotels, and rooming houses, and restaurants, and speaks, including Good Time Charley's Gingham Shoppe, and in the summer time the characters I mention sit on the stoops or lean against the railings along Dream Street, and the gab you hear sometimes sounds very dreamy indeed. In fact, it sometimes sounds very pipe-dreamy. Many actors, male and female, and especially vaudeville actors, live in the hotels and rooming houses, and vaudeville actors, both male and female, are great hands for sitting around dreaming out loud about how they will practically assassinate the public in the Palace if ever they get a chance. Furthermore, in Dream Street are always many hand-bookies and horse players, who sit on the church steps on the cool side of Dream Street in the summer and dream about big killings on the races, and there are also nearly always many fight managers, and sometimes fighters, hanging out in front of the restaurants, picking their teeth and dreaming about winning championships of the world, although up to this time no champion of the world has yet come out of Dream Street. In this street you see burlesque dolls, and hoofers, and guys who write songs, and saxophone players, and newsboys, and newspaper scribes, and taxi drivers, and blind guys, and midgets, and blondes with Pomeranian pooches, or maybe French poodles, and guys with whiskers, and night-club entertainers, and I do not know what all else. And all of these characters are interesting to look at, and some of them are very interesting to talk to, although if you listen to several I know long enough, you may get the idea that they are somewhat daffy, especially the horse players.

We all go around in disguise. The halo stuffed in the pocket, the cloven hoof awkward in the shoe, the x-ray eye blinking behind thick lenses, the two midgets dressed as one tall man, the giant stooping in a pinstripe, the pirate in a housewife's smock, the wings shoved into sleeveholes, the wild racing, wandering, raping, burning, bleeding, loving pulses of reality dangerously disguised as a roomful of human beings. I know goddamn well what's out there, under all those masks. Beauty and Power and Terror and Love.

Time's sands had been trickling fast while I thought these small thoughts that bright spring daybreak. So, though we had loitered on our way, it seemed we had reached our destination on the wings of the morning. Alas, Mrs Bowater's smile can have been only skin-deep; for, when, lifting my eyes from the ground I stopped all of a sudden, spread out my hands, and cried in triumph, "There! Mrs Bowater"; she hardly shared my rapture. She disapproved of the vast, blank "barn of a place," with its blackshot windows and cold chimneys. The waste and ruination of the garden displeased her so much that I grew a little ashamed of my barbarism. "It's all going to wrack and ruin," she exclaimed, snorting at my stone summer-house no less emphatically than she had snorted at Mrs Monnerie. "Not a walkable walk, nor the trace of a border; and was there ever such a miggle-maggle of weeds! A fine house in its prime, miss, but now, money melting away like butter in the sun." "But," said I, standing before her in the lovely light amid the dwelling dewdrops, "really and truly, Mrs Bowater, it is only going back to its own again. What you call a miggle-maggle is what these things were made to be. They are growing up now by themselves; and if you could look as close as I can, you'd see they breathe only what each can spare. They are just racing along to live as wildly as they possibly can. It's the tameness," I expostulated, flinging back my hood, "that would be shocking to me.

Come to the market and sample an orgy! Come to the fair for a thruppenny thrill! Sell him a tomb or a tumbler of strychnine! If you don't, there's plenty of others that will, If you don't, there's others that will. But what shall we do with the ugly ones, The ones who have nothing to sell? The failures, the fumbling muddly ones Who never do anything well? Who never remember their name or number And lose their place in the queue? And what can you do for the ugly ones When they can't do a thing for you? Roll up, roll up to the mechanised peepshow! Bow down, bow down in the temple of lust! What am I bid for the lips of bravado And Anita's marvellous, marvellous bust, And Anita's marvellous bust? But what shall we do with the ugly ones Who just haven't got what it takes? Whose breasts won't boost the marketing charms Or win the nubility stakes? Their legs won't sustain the ad man's campaign Or front the glamour parade. And no one invests in the ugly ones, The ones who won't make the grade Dress yourself smart for the paysetter's party! Dance to the swing of the trendsetter’s call! The prince is cool in an Aston Martin, Eyeing Cinderella, she's the belle of the ball, Cinderella's the bell of the ball! But what shall we do with the ugly ones, The crippled, the sick, and the old? Who haven't got anything left to do But shroud themselves off from the cold? Give them a penny—they haven't any! It's time for the charity game. But we can't change the rules for the ugly ones, And nobody here's to blame. The moth-eared midget is starting to fidget; Soon it will be his turn to go. The flesh and the fur are starting to stir; Hurry up, dear, or we'll miss the show! Be quick, or we'll miss the show! But what shall we do with the ugly ones, The freaks with nothing to sell? The stupefied stunted shell-shocked ones, In their halitosic hell? They can't stand the pace of the status race Or cash in on the rush to rebel. And there's nothing to do for the ugly ones, The ones with nothing to sell.