Being a mascot at a baseball game is like being Marc Antony at a Cleopatra convention, with 100 percent less suicide. My brief doubts about whether or not I could write an entire column over my brush with fame were silenced once I recalled a former roommate’s habit of watching MTV’s “The Hills” incessantly.
An entire entertainment industry is supported by plebs like you, my readers, salivating over the coruscating lifestyles of celebrities, such as myself. Allow me to relate the singular experience of being a bipedal alligator so that you may pine to live a day in my three
