Why aren't I famous yet?

TUESDAY APRIL 20, 2004

This question has been nagging me, and I'm sure others, for quite some time now. It seems inconceivable to me that someone with my obvious mass appeal goes about daily life wholly ignored by most of humanity—ordinary folk who, were it not for the small matter of not knowing me from Adam, would no doubt mob me to get a photo, autograph or lock of hair. Surely, there must be a reasonable explanation for this unwarranted obscurity. And I intend to find it.

To my way of thinking, there are three basic routes to international notariety; attractiveness, talent and serial killing sprees. Clearly, only two of those methods are morally acceptable, and therefore, nowhere near as effective as the third.

First, let's assess my physical attractiveness without bias. In an age when any jackhole with a pretty face and an unhealthy need for attention can get nationwide TV coverage, surely I, too, can qualify as such a jackhole, could I not? Certainly I lack nothing in the "pretty face" department—now I'm not saying my looks are perfect, but my god-like bone structure and flowing, ashen tresses make Brad Pitt look like Quasimodo after getting his head caught in a tree-shredder. Despite this, I have yet to be contacted by the Ford Modeling Agency.

Of course, it would be a tad egotistical to assume that I warrant global adoration based solely on my superior genetics (it would, though, be entirely understandable).

Assuming for the moment that someone might (wrongly) feel that I do not possess Adonis-like comeliness, my astonishing talents are indisputable. With all due modesty, talent is the area where I shine. It is my forté. My raison d'être. In both quantity and quality, my proficiency seemingly knows no bounds.

Here is but a small sampling of these almost superhuman abilities;

• Drawing straight-ish lines
• Writing both letters and numbers in succession
• Taking identifiable photographs of household objects
• Producing sound from a trumpet
• Partially memorizing Monty Python skits
• Waving my tongue
• Bending the first digit of my index finger really far
• Raising and lowering either eyebrow independently
• Reaching objects on high shelves
• Voicing ill-informed opinions loudly
• Stomaching tofu

Naturally, any one of these feats is grounds for unabashed public idolization, and yet I have not once been asked to accept millions of dollars for endorsing a footwear product. Nor have I been scheduled for a Maxim Magazine cover photo-shoot in my underwear. I find it almost offensive that I'm not constantly appearing on television's Hard Copy, MTV's Total Request Live, or even Celebrities Uncensored. While other, less gifted buffoons bask in the warm glow of paparazzi flashbulbs, I still wallow, undiscovered, in abject anonymity.

Now you could, I suppose, build an argument asserting that I have not, as such, actually done anything that might warrant the insatiable eye of television's unblinking gaze. And that might be true, were it not for the obvious fact that everything I do warrants such attention.

My simply getting up in the morning is such an memorable act that it is, itself, worthy of a five-night mini-series. (Memo to self: Call FOX.) The adventurous tale of my daily bicycle commute to Caltrain would rival such cinematic epics as both Lawrence of Arabia, and Revenge of the Nerds 2 combined.

Obviously, I'm far more qualified for fame than most of those currently being libeled by The Enquirer. Yet, for reasons unfathomable to me, few people outside of my Narcissists Anonymous support group would recognize me in a police line-up.

To achieve international fame I could, of course, take the easy way out and open up a 12-gauge shotgun on an unsuspecting diner or subway car. Or perhaps release a sex tape of myself with a prostitute doing all kinds of unnatural acts to a platypus. I choose, rather, to take the high road.

Instead, I plan to publicly slander some already famous person, or use doctored photographs to implicate them in a sex scandal about which I will write a best-selling book.

Why? Because, unlike those attention-starved Hollywood egomaniacs, I have scruples.