It generally backfires bigger than a Republican’s anti-gay speech to rabbis.
It’s always when I’m trying hardest to show off that I get hit in the face with a giant pie of meringue and mockery.
For example, if I take someone to an event, the person in charge of the tickets will always be some know-nothing, fresh-out-of-school intern who will shriek, “What was the name again?” a hundred times before deciding “Misto?”
I’ll finally get the tickets, which at least should be impressive in themselves, but they always turn out to be last row, in the whiplash section of Siberia, because a massive group of friends of the producer took up all the good seats this one time.
And on our way to the back row, as I’m crawling in shame, someone will stop me and ask for a program, thinking I’m an usher!
As a last humiliation, I’ll grab for the gift bag on the way out and yet another intern will quickly slap my wrists and say, “Those are not for press!” (Suddenly they know who I am — and somehow they know I don’t merit free skin cream.)
“I usually get the royal treatment, I swear,” I whimper as the person I’m trying to impress hails a cab the hell out of there.
That’s it! No more showing off!
In fact, no more leaving the house!