Two Dwarfs, One Pinto, and a White Castle Purge: A Night Best Left Unremembered

I walked into my dorm room like a man who’d just been asked to teach quantum physics using sock puppets. My backpack hit the bed with the force of a thousand recessive genes. Jared, my roommate and part-time bourbon evangelist, looked up from his sociology textbook (which he hadn’t opened since the beginning of the semester) and asked why I looked like I had been hit with a sledge hammer.

Turns out, it seemed as if I had. Lavender Evans Elementary where I was doing my student teaching had gifted me a “special opportunity”—a four-week genetics unit taught assembly-style to eighty sixth graders. Translation: “We are your supervising teachers. We’re tired. We hate this unit. You’re young. Go teach DNA while we sit in the planning room drinking coffee and dreaming about summer vacation.”

I smiled like a hostage on live TV and said, “Wow! That sounds exciting!” Inner voice: “Oh shit. Mendel. Pea plants. That’s all I got. I’m about to teach the future of America how chromosomes work using finger puppets and emotional residue.”

Jared, sensing my existential unraveling, offered a solution: “Cold Turkey Bourbon and an X-rated drive-in over in Collinsville.” I hate bourbon. I hate drive-ins. The X-rated part sounded intriguing.” I said yes, because nothing screams “future educator of the year” like drunken voyeurism.

We loaded into my Ford Pinto along with two other friends—a vehicle so flammable it came with its own Last Rites—and headed to the Falcon Drive-In. One guy in our group, Larry, shared he had once climbed the sacred Cahokia Mounds to watch the X-rated screen from a distance and above, which is basically the spiritual equivalent of watching Debbie Does Dallas from The Sistine Chapel.

Let’s talk about the movie. Or rather, the cinematic fever dream that unfolded before us like a Freudian slip in polyester. The stars? Two identical twin dwarfs—well-endowed in ways that defied anatomy, physics, and basic decency. These pint-sized Casanovas had the libido of caffeinated jackrabbits and the plotline of a broken Etch A Sketch.

There was no story. No character development. Just a series of increasingly improbable seductions that felt like someone dared a screenwriter to combine Snow White with Deep Throat and then remove all sense of shame. These twins didn’t just steal scenes—they hijacked them, drove them into a ditch, and then seduced the tow truck driver.

At one point, I remember thinking, “Is this a metaphor for genetic mutation?” And then immediately regretting that thought as one of the dwarfs did something unspeakable with a garden hose and a vat of whipped cream. It was less a movie and more a cautionary tale for anyone who’s ever tried to explain dominant and recessive traits without referencing identical twin sex-crazed dwarfs.

And yet, somehow, we watched the whole thing. Not because it was good. Not because it was enlightening. But because once you’ve committed to a $5 carload night at the Falcon Drive-In, you ride that Pinto of shame all the way to the credits.

We left the Drive In and Jared suggested we drive to Fairview Heights for White Castles. Everyone agreed this was a great decision

Cue flashing lights. Five minutes into our greasy getaway, red and blue lights lit up behind us. I panicked. The Wild Turkey was gone, but my dignity was still flammable. I pulled over, rolled down the window, and tried to look like someone who hadn’t just watched twin dwarfs defile the concept of plot. The officer leaned in, pointed to the top of my window, and said, “You forgot something.” I looked up. There it was. The drive-in speaker, still attached, cord flapping in the wind like a sad, metallic tail of shame. He smiled. “Happens every night. I’ve got a backseat full of ’em.” I thanked him like he’d just saved my soul. The car erupted in laughter. We were idiots, but we were free. On to White Castle.

We arrived at the Fairview Heights White Castle because nothing pairs with hardcore dwarf debauchery like ten sliders, french fries, a large soda and a side of gastrointestinal betrayal. While eating, Martin, turned pale, sweated like a televangelist in a tax audit, and promptly baptized our table in vomit. The manager screamed. We fled. Darrell, who had excused himself to use the restroom was waiting in the back seat of the car with a suspicious grin.

Cue flashing lights. Again. Two miles later, déjà vu. Another cop. Another pull-over. This time, it was serious. “License. Out of the car. Hands on the hood.” I complied.

Turns out, Darrell had stolen the Lions Club gum machine from the White Castle lobby. Because nothing says “college prank” like felony theft of civic fundraising equipment. The officer stared at the machine. I stared at Darrell. Darrell whimpered like a puppy who’d just peed on the Constitution.

Miraculously, the officer let us go. He even returned the gum machine for us out of fear the manager would want to press charges. He had a soft spot for idiotic college kids with a penchant for petty theft and poor life choices.

We made it back to campus in silence. No laughter. No bourbon. Just the lingering question of how I’d explain identical twin dwarfs to sixth graders without getting fired or excommunicated from the PTA.

But here’s the thing: buried beneath the vomit, the theft, and the cinematic trauma was something oddly beautiful. A group of misfits, bonded by bad decisions and worse judgment, somehow made it through the night without arrests, injuries, or permanent emotional scarring (jury’s still out on Martin).

And that, my friends, is the essence of Empathy on the Rocks. It’s not about perfection. It’s about surviving the mess, laughing through the shame, and finding connection in the chaos. Whether you’re teaching genetics to eighty sixth graders or explaining to a cop why your hatchback contains stolen civic property, the lesson is the same:

We’re all recessive traits in someone’s story. But together? We’re dominant. (It took me two days to come up with that closing line. I think it makes sense?)