First off, I would not get married. At least not to a celebrity. It never lasts. I don't know if it's the hectic schedules, or the egos, or perhaps just the pressure of being a celebrity and having to appear accessible to pretty much the world while having so many details of your life scrutinized by so many. Regardless, no celebrity wife for me, though I would certainly date them. I'd have whirlwind romance after romance, but they would all end the same way: in dramatic fashion involving a car chase, an escaped Panda from the San Diego zoo and a structure fire.
Eventually, I'd get sick of famous women, so I would have to get hooked up with someone out of the spotlight, such as a truck stop diner waitress with a cute little bun in her hair who wears horn rimmed glasses and snaps her gum real loud like while shouting, "Where them damn pancakes, Otis?!" Otis, of course, is the gruff and greasy, but loveable, owner of the diner. Forget about Otis.
Secondly, I'd manage my money well. When I hear of some celebrity squandering away all their money and winding up broke, I can't help but laugh. Many of these idiots have millions thrown at them and the piss it away while the average Joe (or Ryan) will probably never see a million dollars in their lifetime, but somehow often manage to make it work. I would not have lavish homes on every coast, but rather a modest home with a few optional features as gifts to myself. I'd have a nice car or two, but my lifestyle would not necessitate a fleet of expensive automobiles. Most importantly, I would make wise investments and save my money. That way, when after the fame and legal expenses (see below) are gone, I'll be able to reap the benefits of smart financial planning.
Now we know how much people get crazy over the pics of expectant mothers and celebrity babies. I would not disappoint. As a practical joke, I would have my wife fake a pregnancy and then when she "gave birth" I would let the paparazzi photograph me with our "baby", which would actually be a monkey in a diaper. But, I would not acknowledge that fact, which would leave people wondering, "Um....does he realize..?" Yes. Yes, I do. His name is Ralph and he's got his daddy's smile. And he throws poop.
Moving on: Theres always a constant battle between the paparazzi and the celebrities. You always see these celebrities covering their faces or acting like they don't want their pictures taken. Fuck that. Take my picture. In fact, let me just give you some. Here's me throwing a football on the beach on vacation, here's me looking all aloof, yet intense GQ style, or getting out of my car with my lastest love interest. I would follow the paparazzi around. Need another picture of me? Wanna stake out my house? I'll be on the lawn posing for photos and handing out autographed 8x10s. The paparazzi would eventually have no interest in me and have no choice but to focus on the important stuff, i.e. which Biblical character or fucking piece of fruit the lead singer of Coldplay is gonna name his next kid after.
Now, as a celebrity, I would also give back to the community.
I would use my celebrity to get Perfect Strangers and MTVs The State released on DVD. You can thank me later.
I would also use my celebrity and the fame and money associated with it for good. I'll let Bono, Angelina Jolie and all those other pompous Hollywood assholes parade around starving African nations with their Gucci, Prada, and Vera Wang, and act as if somehow they can identify with the plights of the needy. I'm not that arrogant. Here's what I would do:
I would help authorities solve crimes. I would go along on police rides, interview witnesses, interrogate suspects, and analyze forensic evidence in a makeshift crime lab in my basement. Ryan L: musician/actor/criminal profiler. It just sounds so good!
Lastly, but very importantly, I'd kill someone. I wouldn't necessarily murder anyone, but I'd be directly or indirectly responsible for someone elses death, enough so that charges would be brought against me. This would probably be towards the end of my career, when my albums aren't selling as well, or the movie roles arent coming in as readily. Perhaps my gum-chewing truck-stop waitress wife would be found dead at the bottom of the stairs. Clichéd? Yes. But it's just an idea. Anyhow, a celebrity trial is always a crowd pleaser and I'd milk it for all it was worth. I'd have entrance music like I was a wrestler and it was the main event at Wrestlemania! I'd enter the courtroom to "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns N' Roses. Then I'd flex and point at the prosecution and say "What ya gonna do, brother, when these 24-inch pythons run innocent on you?!!" My defense attorney would be like my manager and he would distract the judge while I hit the Prosecuting attorney with a steel chair. And then I'd body slam him into the Spanish announcers table and sign autographs for the jury.
Once I'm acquitted (using a great lawyer contact that I made while assisting on my police investigations as detailed above), then I'll retire away to a small town to write my tell-all book and die peacefully in my sleep at the age of 94, lying next to the 25 year old blonde model that I'd been dating.
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