Your Fifteen Minutes Are Up by Chris Woodward

The fortuitous night was rolling around this noggin of mine for many years. Being disabled after a horrible accident at work (I’m a pet stylist by trade but was in the snake wrangling field at the time), I was left with a lot of free time and workman’s comp checks flowing in like so many pieces of paper that denote monetary value. And so being unemployed and at the same time a full-blooded American, I did the patriotic act and watched copious amounts of television; morning, noon, and night it was TV all the time (except 9 pm Wednesdays, that’s my peeping tom night). Sipping Zimas and nursing my horribly engorged left wrist, I soaked up the worst and best that the small screen had to offer. Marathons of “Dynasty”, hours of E! Network’s “True Hollywood Story”, episode after horrible yet addictive episode of “Rosanne” were all usual fodder for my viewing.

After five years and three months of nothing but television, I was twenty pounds heavier and starting to notice the white ball of hate that had grown in my very gut. It was all these darn celebrities and stars that were plastered over the airwaves. Who the deuce were they? Drew Carey was a bloated blimp of a man and yet his cherub face was everywhere. Two shows on the ABC network at once? Jesus Christ himself never even had a television show!

I was a relatively attractive guy; my hair was only receding on the front left side, my gut only had stretch marks on the underside, I got my wrist drained once a week. What else would I have to do to impress people? Put on pants?!? This is America, Comrade Trotsky!!

It was then that my plot began to hatch. In my basement I set up an office for my scheme and a tiny television screen so I could keep tabs on who was to be added to the list. Oh, the list grew and grew. I had my doubts that a disabled man such as me would be able to spirit so many elite to my humble abode in rural Kansas, but yet I persevered.

I figured that celebrities all had one thing in common besides lacking an everlasting soul, they jumped onto any trend that got any sort of foothold in culture like lemmings off a cliff, they don’t know why but everyone else is doing it. Thus the crux of my plan relied upon creating an item so horribly trendy that every celebrity in the known universe would be demanding one. Ashton Kutcher destroyed trucker culture when he started wearing trucker hats, and I would destroy jockey culture. Oh the obsession consumed me. Day and night I sewed millions upon millions of satiny shirts that resembled those of the mighty horse jockey’s uniform. They were tiny and my fingers trembled while holding the needle and thread. There were many times when after a needle prick to the finger or a short burst of pus from my left wrist that I thought of throwing it all in and just eating every jockey uniform right there and then. But then I’d turn to the TV and see Andy Dick’s face mugging so smugly at me that I’d turn back to my work with tenfold enthusiasm.

Finally, the jockey uniforms were finished. I sent one to a few celebrities and in a note claimed they were from Versace and they were “all the rage in Vienna and Paris.” Slowly, one by one, every celebrity that I sent a jockey uniform to started wearing them in public. There was an outcry from the rest of the celebrity nation demanding they each get ten uniforms. Versace denied ever having made them. It was then that I took out an ad in Variety, put an ad on every television station ever and declared that I was the maker and that if they wanted a uniform, they’ll have to show up at my house and bow down to the trendsetter that is I.

Oh they clamored over themselves to fly in their private jets and drive in their stretch Escalades to my rural Kansas home. They all came and followed closely behind by the news media. I felt like Willy Wonka opening his factory to those lucky few golden ticket finding children, only with more death involved in my circumstance. On second thought, Willy Wonka was a child-murderer four times over so it felt about the same. At first they were put off by my appearance and living arrangements and lack of indoor plumbing or any basic hygiene habits at all. But after a few cocktails, I easily led them to my basement. Paris Hilton, Elton John, Sinbad, Jay Leno, the corpse of Marilyn Monroe, Burt Reynolds, Katie Couric, Joan Rivers, Prince Harry, Britney Spears, and a zillion other celebrity types were all in my basement.

Outside the house, I was about to push the plunger on the TNT remote when I looked around at the news people fighting like cats to try and get a glimpse of me, it suddenly struck. With my ads and my trend setting, I had become one of them. I had become an instant celebrity not unlike William Hung. I cried and I shook like a fat man at a Dunkin Donuts on fire. The white ball of hate had consumed me and made me become what I despised the most.

I ran into the basement with all the other celebs and pushed down the plunger laughing maniacally. In a flash, the dynamite exploded and sent my house up into the air along with hair weaves, gigantic bank accounts, overinflated egos, and silicone-implants.

I died that night, yes, but I took along every celebrity in the world with me. And for that, I’d gladly sacrifice myself again along with a few orphans, kittens, and nuns.