January – what better time to switch careers?

WITH the economy bumping around like a Nigerian terrorist trying to set his crotch on fire, it’s time for us to assess where our lives are headed, and why.

“Is this really the best use of my time?” is a question many of us should be asking ourselves. “Or would my skills be better employed in another capacity?”

As usual, I’m way ahead of you. I have already emerged from just such a period of deep self-questioning. Now, you may have resources you consult when the big what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life moments loom, but you can keep your Bibles, your Torahs, your Platos and your Deepak Chopras. When I want to go deep, I consult TMZ.

TMZ, for those of you lost in the barnacled wilds of the Discovery Channel, is the TV show that is all cheesy celebrity gossip, all the time. Like Tiger Woods, TMZ is perpetually on top of things – it broke the story of Michael Jackson’s death and every minuscule development concerning it thereafter.

Right now, TMZ is foaming at the mouth over the mysterious demise of Casey Johnson, the Johnson’s heiress who was engaged to marry Tia Tequila, North America’s tackiest celebrity. Apparently Tequila, a bisexual who once had a reality show where both men and women vied for her favours, is Twittering constantly to thousands of strangers about her heartbreaking loss. Why doesn’t she just shut up, is TMZ’s view, although if she did shut up, its reporters would be hounding her constantly for comments on how she feels. Other villains by TMZ standards are Tiger Woods and the numerous women with whom he’s reputedly enjoyed a hole-in-one, Shaquille O’Neal and the woman currently accusing him of harassing her when she tried to break off their alleged five-year affair, and so on.

But TMZ’s grimy storylines and paunchy T-shirted hosts are not the point here. The point is that, inspired by TMZ, I have found a new niche for myself, and that is this: Impropagandist. More precisely, I am Chief Impropagandist at my fledgling company, Reprobates R Us.

That’s right – if you have done anything that any upstanding person would consider improper and embarrassing but that you consider an excellent excuse to get on TV, you’ll be able to hire me. For 50 percent of the proceeds, I will auction you off to the countless television shows that like nothing better than a nice, juicy scandal.

Now obviously this means I’ll have to move to L.A. -- Canadians are useless at ignominious antics. Our pop stars don’t brawl with their partners and cuss them out publicly, they quietly divorce them and move to a farm. The most scandalous thing to hit Canadians in the mid-1970s, for example, was Mrs. Pierre Trudeau singing – uninvited! -- at a Venezuelan dinner table. You probably remember it – the hair on half our citizens turned white.

So L.A. it is. Let’s say you’ve managed to bed a famous athlete, actor, musician or politician and want to leverage the fact that he was randy and you were handy into a lot of glamorous pictures of yourself in The Globe, The Enquirer, et al. Naturally, as part of my impropagandist duties I’ll take you shopping for giant sunglasses and recommend the type and placement of your tattoos. After that, my key role will be to “leak” stories to your desired targets, and provide various flattering quotes about you that the media will claim came from “a close friend.”

We’ll have to agree beforehand on the slant you want your custom-made impropaganda to take. Just be advised that if you’re a woman, the victim role is the default position. The fact that you shamelessly flirted with a public figure precisely because he was rich and powerful, then went back to his hotel room to show him your La Perlas, need never be pointed out.

You’re just a simple country girl who took his professions of adoration at face value. With your pure heart, you believed that true love was being handed to you by a wealthy husband and father who was struck by your intelligence and good character the moment you begged him to drink a Jell-O shot out of your navel. If you are guilty of anything, it’s of being too trusting, too giving. That’s how I’ll spin it, as your impropagandist.

Or let’s say you moved in with a notorious bad boy or girl, as people keep doing, I can’t figure out why. Hey, I’m not here to judge – just to capitalize on your poor judgments. So Buddy or Barbi winds up in jail on Christmas Day for acting, as usual, like a crazed raccoon. Be very brave. You still got the presents you’d asked for, right?

All we have to do is make sure you’ve got a lot of clingy, vaguely rumpled clothing and great hair for those poor, pitiful you photos the tabs will run, with my assistance. I’ll get you to the paparazzi’s most popular Starbucks outlets for candid “stars’ exes – they’re just like us” photo ops. Then I’ll set you up with 15 minutes at a homeless shelter with a photographer to show the world that no matter what troubles plague you, you’re a champion of inclusiveness and the little people. (Too bad you don’t date little people instead of the Buddy/Barbi’s of the world, but there you go.) Just wait until Oprah gets a hold of this travesty! Rest assured, with my help, she will.

There’s only one problem with my impropagandist career. The real stars, the Tiger Woods’s and the Amy Winehouses, don’t need impropagandists because they have actual skills and talents to fall back on. When they put those on display again, all will be forgiven. The public, however, will only put up with so much bad behaviour from virtual nobodies (see: Jon Gosselin/Octo-Mom).

Thus, soon after an assortment of vulgar choices lands you on the cover of Star Weekly in meager beachwear, you’ll have to do an abrupt about-face if you want to maintain your momentum. To ensure ongoing photographic coverage, it’ll be time to tearily adopt a few orphans, pluckily fondle a bunch of scruffy rescued animals, or defiantly become a spokesperson for some buzzed-about disease.

I can’t help you with such warm and fuzzies. You’ll need a real publicist for that. And then, once again, I’ll be on a quest for more morally reprehensible, greedy-for-fame screw-ups.

Luckily, there’s a constant supply of those. Bring ’em on.