Hollywood called this morning.

“Congratulations.  We’re making your book into a movie.  You’re going to be famous.”

Me?  Famous?  There is so much responsibility to being famous.  I mean I can handle some of the job okay, I’m sure I can handle the  “I’d like to thank all the little people” speeches, and I think I can scrape enough money together to go cruise for some skank crack whore so I can get busted by the police and get one of those really cool celebrity mug shots that they can use on TMZ.  But what about the hard celebrity stuff?

To be famous you have to be on a reality show, and I don’t think I have enough money in my bank account yet to get enough drugs to make me addicted enough to get on ‘Celebrity Rehab’.   I could try for ‘Celebrity Apprentice’, but the thought of being in the vicinity of Donald Trump is so nauseating that I would be constantly puking, and you know someone with an iPhone 5 is going to be there and have it up on YouTube within minutes.  Not good for the image.   I wish there was a Celebrity version of ‘Las Vegas Jailhouse’.  Maybe I can call the show’s producer and convince him to film an episode.  I’d watch it – even if I wasn’t on it.

Lots of questions to think about.  I think I better go to Ikea and see if I can get a casting couch.