Like you, I have fantasized about what I would do if I inherited the good looks of Jennifer Aniston or the likability of Joe Biden.
Unlike the two of them, I would do nothing helpful.
If I were famous, I would go to restaurants, seeking out those on Tinder dates. Just as the food arrives, I would grab a handful of fries off their plates and walk away.
If I were famous, I would buy an ice cream truck, lurk around populated downtown streets shouting “free ice cream! Free ice cream!” I’d wait for white men in suits who looked like bankers, corrupted senators, or as if they have an Ashley Madison account to come up. Hungrily, I’d scoop their ice cream, add a couple sprinkles on top, smash it into their face and then drive away.
If I were famous, the CMA’s would be called “The Dixie Chicks Were Right About George Bush and I Wonder What Kissing Tom Brady Would Feel Like,” and you can’t argue with me on that, I’m sorry.
If I were famous, I would crash weddings by waiting until the minister said, “Does anyone object,” then brusquely stand up from within the crowd, hit play on my boom box and dance out to “Sway,” by Michael Bublé.
If I were rich and widely adored, I would not have crippling anxiety about debt or finding a meaningful love.
If I were famous, I would go into sports bars in the middle of the Super Bowl or the World Series and make them play Spice World on Every. Single. TV.
If I were famous, I would try to make bucket hats come back in style so I could ridicule everyone wearing one and never be without entertainment.
If I were famous, I would catfish people with my middle school photos and then show up looking like the new me, and then citizen’s arrest them for being a pervert.
Like other famous people, I would live an existence with little to no repercussions. With this power, I could finally fight Diane Keaton.
If I were famous, I would ice Donald Trump.
When I am powerful and immortal, I will ensure that People Magazine’s “Sexist Man Alive” cover is actually just a “Not All Men” hashtag, because this time, you’re right. Barely any of you are sexy.
If money was of no object and I had limitless time to explore my interests, I would commission a documentary called, “I Thought Roaches Lived Forever: What Ever Happened to That Beans Kid from Even Stevens?”
If I were famous, I would quickly learn that money can’t buy happiness, but it would also get me one step closer to being in the same room as John Stamos, which is a good as it may ever get for me, so I’ll take it.
If you would like to help me achieve any of the above goals, I’m creating a kickstarter. Together, we can reach my dreams, and I’ll never forget the little people who got me there.