The day after the short-limbed vulgarian was elected Premier, Marla found workmen had lowered her chair at work so that she needed to reach up and over to manipulate her keyboard. The next, they lowered the desk to match, her long legs squashed beneath it. Short was the fashion. Nightclubs brought out sandwich boards: if you’re this tall, you’re not welcome, and the Premier’s face smiled back. Marla didn’t go out anymore, stayed home, wrote long letters to the editor about the Premier’s vulgarity, his decision making, his ubiquity. They were edited for length.
Matt Dube was quick to recognize the comedy potential of radical disparities in size: boardbooks with Clifford the Big Red Dog and Marmaduke in the funny pages were early teachers. Later years revealed a preference for small things in bog paces: infants left sleeping in drafty warehouses, man alone in the universe. He laughs at it all. twitter: @matthewdube