With all the hype surrounding the "gay cowboy" flick "Brokeback Mountain," I've come to the conclusion that the only way for me to get noticed by the elite media is to be gay.

So, I'm gay.

In addition (I originally wrote "on top of that" but thought better of it), I'm also a recovering crack addict and am wheelchair bound after a drug and alcohol induced motorcycle crash that left me paralyzed from the waist down.

It's only a matter of time now before the Pulitzer Prize and The Webby's committee take notice of The Grrr! Column and send me the award for my "insightful and inspirational pop-culture rants."

Plus, The Weinstein Company will offer me big bucks for my story so that it can be adapted into an arthouse movie by "Angels in America" scribe Tony Kushner and directed by none other than "Angst" Lee.

After all, who better to direct the story of an American paraplegic/closeted gay columnist with a frustrated but gorgeous wife and a strapping lover on the side than a filmmaker from Taiwan?

Although my agent told me that Sam Mendes of "American Beauty" fame was a close runner-up for the director gig, he refused to lower his fee to meet the Weinsteins' budget.

Of course, Joaquin Phoenix will play me, and Reese Witherspoon my tortured and sexually frustrated but extremely loyal wife who bathes me and feeds me every day. Surely she'll win an Oscar for the portrayal of her strong liberal woman who understands that being gay is a tortuous calling that trumps her needs.

However, in the best supporting actor category, Brad Pitt is a shoo-in for playing my equally loyal yet equally frustrated gay lover. The critics will praise him for playing against type by kissing Phoenix full on the mouth. He'll do promotion for the film with Angelina Jolie by his side just to remind folks that he is as straight as they come.

Phoenix will not even be nominated because he refuses to kiss up to the Academy, since he knows that Hollywood is such horse-poo that even Paris Hilton gets roles.

The pitch to The Weinstein Company was pretty simple: It's "My Left Foot" meets "Wild Things" meets "Shakespeare in Love" meets "Walk the Line" — the latter being a nod to Lee's inspired yet unoriginal casting of Phoenix and Witherspoon.

But just when you thought that being gay, paralyzed, married to Reese Witherspoon and openly seeing Brad Pitt was enough to garner all the critical praise that Hollywood and The New York Times and Ebert and Roeper could offer, there's a twist.

I also shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.

Now I'm scheduled to be executed by lethal injection. This will of course bring on the Nobel Peace Prize committee, since my "insightful and inspirational column" is surefire proof that I am completely rehabilitated and have atoned for my crime, sparking a nationwide debate on the death penalty.

From death row I write about my visits from "Dead Man Walking" star Susan Sarandon — who only used me for inspiration for her sympathetic nun character, by the way. But I was happy to oblige, although I would have liked a little "Special Thanks To" credit at the end of the film, but oh well.

"Bitter, table for one."

Speaking of bitter, Graydon Carter from Vanity Fair said my column stinks, but what does he know anyway? He kisses more butts than I do, and he's straight! But I digress.

In case you're wondering, here's how the story ends.

I get clemency and am released from prison. Witherspoon refuses to leave my side and grows old with me, but Pitt leaves me for someone who not only can walk, but can carry off a cowboy hat — someone like Jon Voight in "Midnight Cowboy," and he figured he should keep it all in the family -- and since Jolie kissed her brother full on the mouth at The Academy Awards a few years ago, it's all good with her.

I get my own daytime talk show with Omarosa from "The Apprentice: Season One" as my sidekick, and together we are lauded by the critics and dethrone Oprah Winfrey from daytime's elite talk-show shelf.

The Hollywood Foreign Press Association honors me by asking me to host the Golden Globes, where Jack Nicholson — after a few drinks — kisses me on the cheek and grabs my butt as he grins — Joker style — at the star-studded crowd who can barely stay in their chairs, they're laughing so hard.

That Jack is just too cool.

Vanity Fair invites me to their famed Oscar after-party and editor-in-chief Graydon Carter apologizes to me — publicly, mind you — making me the toast of Hollywood.

Oh, and thanks to Dupont, I get artificial legs that help me play myself before the motorcycle crash in a CBS TV miniseries based on the Angst Lee movie about me.

Thanks, America!

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