Don’t hate me because …
Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
“Not even close.”
That was pretty much the answer I got when I called People to see why I hadn’t been included in the most recent edition of the magazine’s annual “50 Most Beautiful People” list.
I mean …
Talk about snubs …
“See, I noticed my name wasn’t included in the ’50 Most Beautiful People’ list, and …” I said.
“You’re a little behind,” the lady who answered the phone said, interrupting me.
An obvious flunky.
If there ever was one.
“I know. I know. The list came out months ago,” I said.
“But I know how y’all put out multiple editions of that list every year.”
” ‘Most Beautiful People.’ ‘Most Eligible Bachelor.’ I don’t know. ‘Most Eligible Bachelorette.’ Just thought I’d …”
“Your name again, sir?” the flunky, er, the lady, said.
“Chris Graham …”
“Are you on a prime-time TV series?”
“A soap opera?”
“Made any movies?”
“Played a pro sport?”
“Why did you call again?”
I got it. It took awhile, but I finally realized what was going on.
“You got a face made for radio, kiddo,” my agent, Harvey D. Shyster III, Esquire, once told me.
Actually, he tells me that repeatedly.
Over and over.
I’d thought he was complimenting me, until I realized recently what that meant.
You can’t see my face on the radio.
“Bummer,” I said to myself – the day that I learned what the Harv-ster was really saying to me.
“Did I at least make honorable mention?” I asked the lady on the phone.
“You’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you?” she said.
“You can never be too sure,” I said.
“Yes, you can.”
“No. No honorable mention. No … dishonorable mention. I don’t see you mentioned … at all.”
For the record, I’m not ready to concede this.
See, I live by the theory that the world comes full-circle.
The yin and the yang. The alpha and the omega.
I was a dork-boy in high school, a pizza face, a … help me here.
A goober-rama in college.
The kids with pocket protectors used to make fun of me.
The glee club used to beat me up.
By my theory, it’s my turn to shine – eventually.
No more dork-boy. No more pizza face.
It’s time for the world to come full-circle …
“Excuse me, brainiac. If the world comes full-circle, that would mean you’d be a dork-boy again,” my friend Eli pointed out, astutely.
“Yeah,” our friend Mordecai said.
“See, circles are round,” Eli said.
“You’d be back at the starting point,” he said.
“Uh-huh. You probably just want the world to come half-circle,” Mordecai said.
“Yeah. A 180.”
“Otherwise, you’re a dork-boy.”
“Make that still a dork-boy.”
So my theories are a little off, but the point remains.
It’s time for me to shine.
I’m due, baby. The first shall be the last. The last shall be the first.
“Massive total nuclear annihilation,” the lady on the phone said.
“That’s it?” I said back.
I’d asked her how it might be possible for me to get on the list next year.
“Well, let me clarify that,” she said.
“Let’s just say … are you familiar with the concept of the last man standing on the face of the earth?”
“Well, if that happens, and you’re the last man, we might give you a call,” the lady said.