An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Thursday, April 1, 2010

I Know How to Be Famous

I used to think I wanted to be famous. Then I realized that you don't need a lot of money, cars, noteriety, and ceaseless blowjobs from skinny, anonymous blondes to be an obnoxious asshole that nobody likes.

My decided lack of fame doesn't haunt me nearly as much as it did when I was a frustrated early twentysomething and I had delusions about being a young, dapper Andy Rooney, whose rapier wit propelled the country into a new enlightened age of superior elocution and elevated thought. I mean, Andy Rooney has existed for around eight decades, and we're all still basically retarded.

But I definitely wanted to be famous when I was younger, though I didn't really know why. I suppose, more for my own benefit than for society's, in spite of what I might have said in the above paragraph. I mean, really, who does fame really benefit besides the famous? I haven't especially found my life improving since Rachel Ray got her own TV show and cloying catchphrases.

Fame, more than anything, though, seemed like an awful lot of work when I was younger. You had to move to New York City or Los Angeles, plaster the walls of your shitty apartment with photographs of yourself taken from plays or concerts, forsake every living friend and relation in favor of your own narrow, obsessive pursuit of personal glory and eat nothing but pizza slices for two years while busking your soul away in some subway alcove while nursing STDs given to you by some unwashed, 108-pound groupie with black eyeshadow and a spiderweb tattooed on her whaletail.

You know-- until you get "discovered."

For a lazy little shit like me, who expects adulation and recognition to be inserted into his bloodstream via a Ron Popeil flavor-injector enema, that seemed like rather a lot to go through for no actual promise of victory.

I straddle the tenuous divide between unabated arrogance and unmitigating self-doubt. On the one hand, I was convinced that there was absolutely no need for me to go to college-- that every talent I possessed, whether it was a knack for the written word or a remarkable penchant for embodying another skin on a stage, was perfectly honed and would in no way benefit from advanced instruction. On the other hand, I was also convinced that I would never amount to anything and that God would make my dick fall off in a gangrenous heap because He wouldn't be able to bear witnessing me procreate and bring into the world another talent-free wretch.

So, I guess I never fully believed that shooting for fame was a worthwhile pursuit. And maybe that's a good thing. I still can't articulate what I learned in college, except that 20-year-olds shouldn't be allowed to have their own radio shows, that unmarried sex with Catholic girls isn't worth it and ditto on the unlimited meal plan.

Of course, it's tempting nowadays to rethink the whole idea of being famous, since it's changed so much. People like Paris Hilton have taught us that you don't need any talent whatsoever in order to be famous, and hundreds of other slackjawed morons, unwatchable dunderheads and irrepressible himbos have followed in her wake to solidify that notion. We are no longer a society that rewards talent, we have turned into a mass of idiots that obsess over... well... I don't even know what it is exactly that we obsess over, what facet of a person's personality or ass that we can't get enough of in pop culture. But, whatever it is, it's usually several phyla removed from talent.

And I don't mean to pick on people like "The Situation," Lord knows. Take a look at the publishing industry. It used to be you had to have studied/fake orgasmed under Norman Mailer just to get a publisher to look at your manuscript. Now, people like Julie Powell and the chick who wore a brown dress every day for a year, and the guy who lived like Jesus for a year, and the family that bought nothing from China for a year, etc, etc, etc are turning into authors. All it takes is 365 days, a blog, some angst, and you're all set!

Now, this newfangled way to get famous has been tried and true tested over the course of the last couple years and it's pretty fool-proof-- and I have to admit that, for such an obsessive blogger as I, it's pretty tempting. I mean, I could eat nothing but turnips for a year and write about that. Or, I could walk around with my fly down every day for a year and blog about people's reactions-- I could even wear a hidden camera and snap pictures of their aghast faces and post them on my blog instead of actual words-- lots of bloggers just put up pictures and get away with it; why couldn't I?

I could do it. Because I know how to be famous in 2010.


  1. My plan is to make a poorly lit, incredibly boring sex tape with some random guy and then "accidentally" leak it to the internet. But I'm not rich so I'll probably have to do something vaguely to utterly repulsive for it to get any attention.

    I may need to develop a drinking problem first.

  2. Megs--

    I'd watch that shit.

    Then again, my standards are somewhat dubious.

    Good luck with that drinking problem. I despise alcohol, or I'd join you. Instead, I think I'm just going to repeatedly hit myself in the back of the head with a 1950's-era broiling pan until I am of sufficient intelligence to score a scripted MTV reality show.

  3. There's a difference between getting one publishing contract and actually being famous. Talent endures.

    Still, if the public craves stunt memoirs (and it seems they do), and if you're not forsaking some other project for it, what's wrong with giving them what they want? Preferably with more panache than had previously occurred to them.

  4. 1. as a former catholic school girl, i'm royally offended.

    2. this reminds me, i was supposed to be famous by now...

  5. I gots a blog. I gots 365 days, and baby, I gots the angst.

    Where is my fame and fortune? *stomps foot*

  6. Another former catholic schoolgirl here, and offended isn't even the word. TAKE IT BACK. Sex with me would be so worth it.

    Also, who the hell is Andy Rooney?

    *totters off to ask Google*

  7. Dear Hot Catholic Girls:

    You have my unmitigated, unrelenting, exalted, exsanguinous apologies.

    I have no doubt that sex with all of you would totally be the cat's meow.

    I will discuss the whole open marriage thing with my wife tonight after "Project Runway."

  8. i don't want to be famous one bit.
    i just want the money.

  9. Jeez, I dont know how I am going to be famous if I die choking on oatmeal while laughing at your post. Seriously hilarious stuff..(love it)

    And if you really want to do the hidden camera thing - sign me up.. I am sure you'd come up with an awesome picture only website

  10. You're such a blottie (blogger + hottie)! And I say that both en lieu of this post and your recent ascension to blogger greatness courtesy of 20sb blowing up your spot. Did I just employ ebonics?

    Anyways, you bring up an excellent point in that this whole 'fame' business isn't exactly the cat's meow. Aside from the whole amassing of wealth, which is a positive, being famous seems like a superb way to accumulate an array of communicable diseases and embarrass your parents.


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!