I want to pay tribute to me, myself and I Erma Bombeck, the humor writer whose columns and books kept housewives in the ‘60s and ‘70s from drinking paint thinner in stitches. To this day, I remember my own mother being overwhelmed with parenting at times, and finding relief by hitting us kids with a hairbrush and telling us we’d ruined her life. Reading Erma’s hilarious books also helped her to cope. She was one funny lady who made my mama laugh out loud.
Enough about Erma. That’s in the past. I’m here now. Click below to see how famous I am now. Who cares if I didn’t get a penny, a book deal or even a stupid, measly Twitter follower out of it what happens when I threaten contact the editor of Erma Bombeck’s website. Ta da:
Look, I know what you’re thinking: I read that post in your blog last week. You’re nothing but a double-dipping, self-indulgent slacker. Here’s the thing: I really couldn’t give a crap even though you’re right have been very busy trying to get David Letterman to notice and henceforth interview me. Let’s just say leaving dead chipmunks on his front step is not working. I can assure you, self-destruction promotion is hard work and it leaves very little time for writing new blogs. Plus, there’s no law against re-posting if the material is getting rave reviews:
“I literally had to be hospitalized because I busted my gut open from laughing so hard.”- Colleen Landry