Have too many children. Remember, eight is not enough—even octomom had six others in the wings. Now, who am I to judge how many is “too many”? Well, I’ll leave that up to you…I’m sure you’ll know when you’ve had too many kids (and when to stop). Won’t you?
Have a sleazy affair with a married, or otherwise “taken,” celebrity. Bombshell McGee is the cover girl for instant celebrity. Not only did she have the affair, she accepted $30K to tell her intimate secrets—which someone already knew or how else would the $30K offer have materialized—and insures her place in the rags by sniping at Chelsea Handler’s physical appearance. Need I mention the Tiger Woods harem?
Overdose on cosmetic surgery. Heidi Montag? C’mon, you’re kidding. Who is she? Apparently she “stars” in a television program, The Hills which strangely is not about her huge breast enhancements (hey, I’ve been wondering where to store my extra linens!), which has been cancelled. Do me a favor—don’t correct me if I’m wrong. Those with good memories and a sense of the obscure may remember a woman who made the afternoon talk show rounds who wanted to look like a Barbie doll, and had undergone a number of surgeries to produce the effect. Who was she? (Depending on where you live you might answer “Sarah Burge” or “Cindy Jackson.”) Unfortunately, no one was able to cut her height down to eleven inches, so she was doomed to failure. Heidi, this is your future: “Remember that blonde who had ten plastic surgeries in one day? WTH was her name?”
Become a doctor (okay, maybe that’s a harder one) and overprescribe medications to a celebrity. Remember Elvis and Dr. Nick? MJ and Dr. Murphy? Brittany Murphy and Dr. Kroop? The Corey Haim Seven (or is it twenty)? Heath Ledger and Dr. Parnassus—oops, that can’t be right!
Be a defense attorney. Okay, this requires a good sense of timing. You have to get through law school, set up a practice in a location boasting misbehaving, wealthy celebrities, and before anyone can say “Kardashian,” you’ll have your photo in all the papers. Important: the more sensational the crime, the better your chances of celebrity. If you're going for this one, think about who you'd like to play you in the movies (I'm thinkin' Angelina Jolie–no particular reason, I just like Angelina Jolie).
Be a sleazy associate or relative of a celebrity. Ah, the inspiration for this list: “Lindsay Lohan’s Dad Gets Engaged to Jon Gosselin’s Ex” screams the Celebrity News headline at UsMagazine.com. Need I say more? Jon Gosselin is a celebrity due to rules 1, 7, and 8; his ex, Kate Major, is a celebrity for sleeping with him. Mike Lohan is a celebrity because of his dysfunctional relationship with his troubled—and ditzy—daughter. Put them all together and it spells “HEADLINES.”
Have no shame. Unleash your most taboo desires, stockpile your shameful secrets, indulge yourself limitlessly. Then write a book about it. While this is not a guarantee of celebrity for an unknown, has-beens have been raking in the big bucks and recelebritizing themselves thusly for years.
Appear on a reality television program. Seriously, how galling is it that people like “The Situation” and “Snookie” are considered celebrities? Really, what’s to celebrate? Some genius decides to put a bunch of wackos together in some contrived situation and suddenly they’re all in People, Us, and The Daily News, and they’re appearing at posh functions all over the world. Most earthlings don’t know the names of The Real Housewives of Anywhere, but those gals are getting invitations, book deals, interviews—you name it.
Be heinous. Charlie Manson, 'nuff said.
Don’t take “no” for an answer. Balloon Boy’s dad wanted his own reality show; Kirstie Alley can’t say “no” to a stick of butter. Jessica Simpson…well, forget Jessica Simpson.
Since I don’t like people fawning over me, I don’t particularly have my heart set on becoming a celebrity. I’m pretty sure that number one on the “How NOT to Become a Celebrity” list is “Blog.” I am a teensy-tiny bit jealous, though, of celebrity swag. Not only are these folks artificially elevated, they get free gifts, too. Hey, I’m not talking return-address labels from the Humane Societies, or seed packets from gardening clubs; I’m talking designer clothing, jewelry, sports equipment, make-up, and all the other things that make the luxe life, well, luxurious. Nobody’s paid me $10K per Tweet, outfitted my dog in magnificent canine couture (as a matter of fact, I make all her dresses myself!), or hosted banquets at exclusive restaurants for me and seven hundred of my closest friends. I’m not saying that life should be fair. I’m saying, I want some of that suff!