Is that you usually end up reeling in a big, whopping dis.
A couple of years ago at a diner–oh, hush, you have to eat somewhere–I spotted a guy dutifully reading my column at another table.
Anxious to be anointed with all kinds of praise, I raced up to him and gurgled, “Hey! That’s me!”
“Huh?” he responded.
“That’s my column you’re reading!” I explained. “I’m Michael Musto!”
“Oh,” he said, not overly impressed as he distractedly returned to his omelette.
“So are you enjoying it?” I begged, with a nervous giggle. “Not the omelette–I mean the column!”
“Eh,” he said as if shooting daggers through my skull.
I never fished for a compliment again.