Like everyone else, I dream of my 15 minutes of fame and can’t figure out what’s taking so long. I already have picked out the title to my autobiography. After all, everyone wants to read about the famous, right?

Actually, there are several titles in play. I’m still deciding. I’ll pass along a few examples:

Confessions of a Cassanova– I thought this would be a good intro about my life as a cad, womanizer, ladie’s man, hunk, whatever. But then I found out that in some languages, it can also mean “new house”. So, well… I can write about remodeling my condo apartment.

The Meek Do Not Inherit The Earth– Over the years, I’ve learned that one must stand up for himself, unless the cop tells you to stay in the car after he pulls you over for going through a red light.

If I Make Sense, Give Me The Change– This one is my favorite because it makes no sense. Okay, maybe it is stating the obvious- that not everyone understands my brand of humor, which comes in many flavors.

Self-Hero Worship– Hey, If I’m not gonna tote my whistle, who is? Patting oneself on the back is a form of good exercise. It works the forearm muscles into shape.

The Life of a Pulitzer Prize Winner– Hey, we can all dream, right?

The Pride of Austin– I figured I’d get all the Texans to spend money on a book about one of their native sons until they found out I was referring to a neighborhood in Chicago of which the last time I stepped foot on a sidewalk there was August 28, 1968.

You Can’t Keep a Good Man Up or Last Man Standing– I like to sit or better yet, lay down and keep my legs lifted. It helps the edema. Or maybe, more apropos- Here’s to a Swell Guy.

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