ROANOKE TIMES

                         Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: SATURDAY, April 13, 1991                   TAG: 9104130381
SECTION: EXTRA                    PAGE: E-1   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: Ben Beagle
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium


IT MAKES ME GLAD I'M STILL JUST A NOBODY

The recent commotion about the new book on Nancy Reagan ought to make most of us grateful that we never amounted to anything.

People don't write weird books about zeroes.

(Ha. Ha. Remember the time Sinatra sang `'Nancy with the Smiling Face" at the inaugural gala?)

I was surprised to hear that Nancy hates her legs.

I don't want to be petty here, but some really haphazard research I have done shows that persons who don't like their legs tend to be overbearing and wear expensive clothes.

I am the exception. I have never liked my legs, but you won't find a person who is as humble and non-aggressive as I am. Haven't bought a suit in years.

Did I mention that I am also loyal and loveable? Not to mention handsome and magnetic?

People in high school made fun of my legs, with good reason, I guess. It is kind of humorous to see a 230-pound person with skinny legs coming out of his gym shorts.

Actually, my legs resembled Betty Grable's, which got me into a lot of fistfights.

I liked the part where Nancy sent this kid his used teddy bear as a present.

If we were famous, somebody would come along and write one of those unauthorized biographies about us and then we'd be sorry.

Come on. You may not be famous, but you know there are a lot of things you wouldn't want any imbecile with the price of a book to know.

Sure. You don't remember the time you and your neighbor Consuela got into the Christmas punch and spent the entire evening under the mistletoe.

Boy, that's worth a couple of pages in anybody's unauthorized biography.

Right. All you remember about Consuela is that she liked her legs and made her own clothes.

Or the time your wife got lit at the office party and danced the entire score from "Slaughter on 10th Avenue," slit dress and all.

And wait until some biographer gets hold of the information that you once sent your Aunt Zelda her own corset as a Christmas gift - the dear thing having left it at your house when she visited for Thanksgiving. What a sicko.

Listen, pal. These people who do these biographies know how to expand on things like this.

Oh, you can issue a statement saying:

"My wife and I will have no comment on this scurrilous attempt to blacken our reputations. Besides, I don't remember anybody name Consuela."

But the damage has already been done.

I don't have this problem. I'm a nobody who intends to stay that way.



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