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.

Building the brand of me

As someone who "claims" to be a writer, I have recently implemented various techniques in an attempt to make myself appear intelligenter so that pedestrians who walk by me will know right away that I have more substance than famous writers like Suzanne Somers or Dr. Oz. 

Through crafty subliminal manipulation, my hope is they will rush out to buy my book (which does not exist yet) and not the literary trash of my contemporaries. 

As a regular reader of this site and someone who I have called Mother for the last 46 years, I will let you in on a few tricks of the trade that I have developed to help me attain  the aforementioned goal.  

First, but not least, I have Crazy Glued my forefinger and thumb to my chin so it looks like I am in perpetual deep thought. As many of you are aware, deep thought is a sure sign that someone is thinking deeply which, expressed another way means they are educated. 

(As an aside, this pose only works if you look up towards the heavens and flutter your eyelids meaningfully. Looking down conveys a sentiment of disapproval for someone's shoes and that is not the image we are going for here.) 

One word of advice to potential copycats: when you are using Crazy Glue be certain not to scratch anything until after you have washed your hands. I have it on good authority that skin is very sensitive in the genital area. Plus walking around with your hand stuck to your baby maker is unacceptable in almost every social circle I can think of.

But I digress. 

The second thing I do to let people know I am a writer without actually telling them involves alcohol.  No surprise here but, historically speaking, writers are drunks and I happily count myself among the scribes who lack in the healthy liver department. Of course, drinking a lot requires cash which is something I am in dire need of so I have become accustomed to licking wayward beer bottle caps I find on the street. It takes a lot of energy and time but the cost savings in these economically-depressed times are well worth the effort. Perhaps a book will come out of that hot tip?

Finally, I invested what little money I have in a t-shirt that says "I am Dr. Oz". 

I know I don't look like Dr. Oz, nor do I have his "alleged" experience, but anyone who isn't playing with a full deck or watched an episode of Oprah in the last five years won't know that. (I am talking to you prisoners.) By using his name, people will know I am a successful writer and doctor right away.  

To aid in the illusion, I have also acquired a plastic stethoscope from the kid next door which I wear around my waist. This adds credibility when I ask the above-mentioned pedestrians if they would like a "sidewalk physical". Although no one has accepted my offer to disrobe, I think it is only a matter of time before I snag my first subject.  Maybe if I had rubber gloves instead of my Bob the Builder mittens, I could seal the deal.