I’m tired of a being an income-challenged blogger, dressed in ratty T-shirts and dining on grilled cheese sandwiches.  I crave a book deal like John Grisham’s, with Armani on my back and foie gras in my belly. I long to banter with Joy, Whoopi and the gang.  I wish to snap Larry King’s suspenders before he retires.  I want to party hearty with Snooki and Bethenny Frankel even though I don’t know what they’re like, because they’re famous, so they must be fun. 

I know exactly how I’m going to accomplish this. And you can help me do it.

Insult me.

You see, nothing gets your name in the paper like being offended.  Display a little moral outrage, or cause it, and the paparazzi can’t get enough of you, celebrities want to be seen with you and the cable talk shows are stalking you.

I got the idea from the sports pages.  Last Tuesday, Steven Strasburg, the young phenom pitcher of the Washington Nationals and the hottest draw in baseball, was pulled from his scheduled start at the last minute because the team was concerned about an injury.  When it was announced to the 40,000 fans in attendance that journeyman pitcher Miguel Batista would pitch instead, the air was filled with raucous booing.

Batista – who, it should be noted, is not your ordinary dumb jock, but a published poet – declared that he understood how the fans felt. “Imagine,” he said, “if you go there to see Miss Universe, and you end up having Miss Iowa—you might get those kind of boos.”

Uh-oh!  You know what came next, right?  Before you could say “fertilize your crops,” Iowans were having a cow.  How dare he insult the great state that used to be home to Ronald Reagan, or at least that he drove through, or mentioned once in a speech?  Next thing you know, Batista is calling Katharine Connors, the current Miss Iowa, personally to issue an abject apology and sending her a dozen roses.

I was going to write a rant about how everyone is so tight-assed these days that nobody can take a joke any more, but then I saw that Miss Iowa was having fun with her fifteen minutes, part deux.  She was being interviewed everywhere, she was getting new followers on Twitter and she threw out the first pitch at a Nationals game.  Even Batista was benefiting, having been invited to serve as a judge at the next Miss Iowa pageant. 

I mean, I can act insulted as well as anyone.  If there’s money in it, I can display feelings so hurt that my tear ducts are sending out more water than Old Faithful.  

Here’s the best part: I’m a straight white male.  If your insult contains even the slightest reference to my race, gender or orientation, I can twist the words, quote it out of context and claim reverse discrimination.  Ka-ching!  Fox News adopts me as a cause célèbre,  Hannity, O’Reilly and Beck ante up for me to appear on their shows, Olbermann and Maddow are denouncing me as a whiny baby, Sarah Palin offers to take me moose-hunting – or maybe Levi Johnston-hunting - The National Review invites me to pen a column, I get a book advance from Regnery Publishing, I’m schmoozing with Mr. Suspenders himself (maybe even answering live calls from the Annies in Michigan, the Matts in Virginia, hopefully even the Tinks in Indiana), and the next thing you know, I’m rolling in so much dough that I’m snorting blow off the chests of high-end call girls with my new best friends, the deep-pocketed lobbyists.  Life is good.

Now here’s the ingenious part.  Just when my fifteen minutes are expiring, and Fox has adopted another faux scandal, I announce that the whole thing was a hoax, that the insult was taken out of context and that I was never offended to begin with.  Ka-ching!  Now Fox News is denouncing me, Beck is comparing me to Hitler (well, he compares everyone to Hitler), Palin is refudiating me, Olbermann and Maddow are kissing my posterior, Joan Walsh declares me an American hero, I get another shot at Larry’s suspenders, I’m doing a college lecture tour with Shirley Sherrod about the gullibility of the media, I’m penning an essay for The Nation, and now maybe I get a book deal with a Manhattan publisher.  Next thing you know, I’m so wealthy that I’m snorting blow off the chests of high-end call girls with my new best friends, rock stars and the Hollywood elite.  Life continues to be good.

So, come on, can you help a brother out?  Insult me. Give me your best shot.  You know I’d do the same for you.  (In fact, you should hear what I say about you behind your backs.) 

But time is of the essence.  I’ve got some tuition bills coming due.  Besides, my local escort service said it will only reserve my client number for a few more days.

Oh, snap!