If I ruled the world, I would rule from behind a mask, and would do so for the three following reasons.
Reason No. 1: The mask would be an emblem of power while exuding mysterious charm and putting a positive spin on the term “impersonal government.”
Reason No. 2: Say I want a day off from my hectic schedule of meeting with economic advisers, giving state of the union addresses or playing badminton with the Kennedys. All I have to do is get a guy with my same height, build and impeccable conversation skills, put a mask on him and, voila, I have the day off.
Reason No. 3: The mask would mean no one would know what I look like. So when I take my day off, I don’t have to worry about assassination attempts while ordering a pastry at Panera. I would be the Hannah Montana of world conquerors.
When Michael Jackson got a bunch of flak for making his children wear masks in public, I admit, I too gave him a bunch of flak. But then, I thought more about it and came to the conclusion that maybe he was just trying to keep the lucrative, gossip-mongering side of the press (not all press is evil now) from descending upon his children like the press he had to deal with. Of course, the whole dangling Blanket from the balcony episode did not help his case, but let’s forgive and forget.
We all want to be world famous. We want to be on the cover of Vogue, Entertainment Weekly, Time Magazine, Reader’s Digest and the Harding Magazine. We want to crack inside jokes with Ryan Seacrest on the red carpet while being swarmed by paparazzi. We want teenagers to scream and wail and chase us as we try to get away on a Razor scooter. In short, we want to be Justin Bieber.
Today, celebrities cannot be seen without perfect makeup, washboard abs or any kind of bad fashion choices. We criticize their parenting styles, assume whatever the media want us to assume and use such words as “I hate [insert celebrity], they are such a [insert derogatory name],” and we’ve never met them and probably never will. I sometimes wonder if every celebrity envies Hannah Montana and her “best of both worlds” gimmick.
And there are the celebs who are starved for attention, even if it means checking themselves into an extended day spa … er … I mean rehab center.
I am not going to be one of those people who go around claiming I don’t want to be famous, because deep down, I do. What I don’t want is paparazzi sifting through my trash, unnamed sources dishing out my “dirty secrets” to tabloids or psychiatrists analyzing my eating habits on talk shows when they have never met me.
Even the kind of fame that gets you remembered for generations to come is not even all that great, because you are still dead. All these nice poetic sayings about being immortalized by your works are utter nonsense. Shakespeare’s work may still be regarded as some of the greatest works of literature ever known to mankind, but he is dead and not enjoying the attention. True immortality is actually being alive and enjoying the fruits of your accomplishments in life, i.e. heaven.
Instead, let’s strive for the red carpet entrance into heaven, where we can be swarmed by angelic paparazzi who don’t sift through our trash, where we can make inside jokes with St. Peter and get VIP access to New Jerusalem courtesy of God.
