Harris was near death. Cancer. His breath had shallowed to little puffs. He only had a few minutes to live, so the nurse called the priest.
The priest came in. He asked Harris if he had any last wishes The priest asked Harris if there was anything he wished to confess before it was too late.
“Yes, Father,” Harris said. “I must confess, I always hated midget matches.”
“Midget matches?” the priest asked.
“Yes. Wrestling matches with midgets. I always hated them. They were hokey and goofy. Midget cowboys and Indians and all that shit. Hated those goddamned matches. But it was never a proper thing to admit.”
“Why not?” the priest asked.
“You were supposed to feel sorry for the midgets, so you were supposed to like the matches. But I hated those damned matches.”
Harris’ eyes fluttered as he puffed.
“Hated midget matches. There,” Harris said. “I finally said it.”
“But the midgets?”
“What about ’em?” Harris asked.
“You had no animus toward the midgets themselves? There’ll be no salvation – no entering heaven – with hate in your heart for your fellow man.”
“I guess not,” Harris said.
He looked over to his daughter standing in the corner.
“Just hated their matches. Let it be known I only hated their matches. Midgets, in and of themselves, were okay by me.”
Harris’ daughter stepped out of the corner. She asked, “You want that engraved on your headstone, Dad? We can always change it. It’s not been cut yet.”
“Nah,” Harris said.
“But their shape? It wasn’t unseemly?” the priest asked.
“Those thick, bowed legs? Those stubby, chubby arms? Now’s the time to confess. Now or never,” the priest urged.
“Okay. Their shape was a little unsettling,” Harris admitted.
The priest agreed.
“Don’t be ashamed, Dad,” Harris’ daughter said.
And with that final confession, Harris passed in peace, confident he’d soon be skipping right through the Pearly Gates.