"Don't get a swelled head." "Don't be a hot dog." Those were the messages I got when I was growing up. So I don't brag. There was that time I did share with you that I got one of those Mormon genealogy programs and had traced my lineage back to the Blessed Virgin Mother — she and I both have the same jaw line and similar widow's peaks — but I didn't make a big deal of it.
But please allow me to share humbly a proud performing moment. I was emceeing a three-day LGBT conference in a very lar-di-dar hotel. The confab was spectacularly conceived and executed with great workshops, practical laser-like political analysis, great hallway conversations and moving speeches.
The problem was the vinyl chairs. Every time anyone shifted slightly, an embarrassing whoopee cushion sound of flatulence hung in the air like a bad joke. Attendees were mortified if they made the sound and nearly rigor-mortised to avoid making it again.