Mini(ature) Me!

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Remember the hilarious, if sinister, Mini Me, Dr Evil‘s sidekick/henchman from the wonderful Austin Powers films? Any spoof of the James Bond franchise was welcome indeed – and this one, with its brilliant take-offs of famous Bondian titles (‘The Spy who Shagged me’ and ‘Goldmember’ being two that come to mind instantly), grabbed me by the below-the-belt particulars immediately.

But, putting aside Mike Myers‘ brilliance as Austin Powers/Dr Evil and Verne Troyer’s mesmerisingly menacing role as Mini Me, would any of us really want to have a miniature version of ourselves, identical in all but height, following us around like a Satanic version of Mary’s Little Lamb?

I can’t think of anything worse offhand, myself! Imagine the reality: Those soothing hours closeted in the Smallest Room in the House (or, Bog-Bound, as I tend to call it!) would become decidedly voyeuristic, not to mention constipation-inducing, if one had a minute facsimile of oneself straining away on a small toilet beside one!

What if, in the inverse proportion way of thinking, said grisly and vertically-challenged homunculus ended up with a much larger Weapon of Mass Seduction than one’s own, eh? Or, if one is female, tits like adjacent Pyramids.

What if one’s very own Twin of Restricted Growth (TORG) were the diametric opposite to oneself: Homicidal, say, or a genius, or the New Messiah? One would never live it down if one’s Miniature womb-sharer – or, worse, product of a wank and a test tube – turned out to be positively gargantuan in celebrity terms!

Now, I am not being even remotely sizeist here: I imagine it would be equally vile for the Small Party to be metaphorically carrying around some clumsy and over-sized twat with boats for shoes and a tendency to blunder through Occasional Tables, Chaise-Longues and other pretentious items of furniture as if they were created for a dolls’ house!

Nay, nay! ‘Tis one of those conceits which works splendidly on the Silver Screen, and is hysterically funny to watch; but, as a working proposition away from Hollywood, is about as much use as leg-warmers to a double amputee.

The only miniatures I shall be endorsing, and eating, are those which come wrapped in foil and are made from the Cacao Bean – or, at a pinch, those dinky little piccies of large-nosed, generally hideous, ancestors which are collected out of familial nostalgia, regardless of the reality: Had we actually met those people, captured in pastel hues in a weeny frame, we would almost certainly have loathed them cordially and been planning their inhumation on a daily basis!

Miniature Schminiature, I say!