I wouldn't normally do this sort of thing, but this evening I've been reading The Love Song of J. Edgar Hoover by the country singer, humourist, crime novelist, politician and self-appointed cigar czar Kinky Friedman and I just had to share the following gem:

'It is a rather tedious fact of life that most of us who are confined to the human condition spend a great deal of time wanting to be something we're not. Or someone we're not. The proctologist, scrupulously washing his hands before and after each patient, dreams of being Dr Albert Schweitzer. The rock star, as he worries whether to leave the Porsche with valet parking, dreams of saving the rain forest. The bank clerk dreams of embezzling a million dollars and moving to Costa Rica. The average Costa Rican dreams of moving to Akron, Ohio, and becoming a bank clerk. The many people who lead anonymous little lives long for fame. The handful of people who've become truly trapped in the thing that fame is, invariably long for anonymity. As far as the rest of us go, we have to deal with so many assholes every day we figure we probably should've been proctologists and at least get paid for it.'