R.I.P.

Now that Joe the Plumber has a book coming out, I think I can finally put an end to this year-long dream of having my manuscript published. If an unlicensed, tax-evading, toilet dwelling bald guy takes precedence in the publishing world over me, an unemployed, alien-evading, rehab dwelling writer-guy, what hope is there?

On the surface, I have done everything right. I have learned a new word every day to improve my vocabulation (today it was ‘alas’). I have consumed enough alcohol to develop a level of cirrhosis that rivals history’s best writers. And I have even gone thong-less for 27 days straight in the hopes that renegade paparazzi would capture my “talent” and publish my exploits in Writer Monthly creating the kind of buzz that would make cash registers sing.

 But alas, it was all for nothing.

It seems as if publishers would rather hear about the trials and tribulations of cloggy u-pipes than the intrigue and excitement of mannequin stalking.

 What gives?

What do I have to do to get noticed? Do I have to start wearing my fuzzy Alf fanny pack again? Do I need to exchange my plastic I Dream of Jeannie slippers for something less comfortable but more conservative?  If you think having incompatible nipple colours would be enough in this day and age to set you apart from the crowd, think again.

If I owned luggage, I’d pack my bags and pursue my dream of becoming the world’s first pregnant man. What? Thomas Beatie did that already. 

Damn! One more dream that has  twirled down the drain of life.