I Will Be Famous.

Tonight I will not go out. I will not do homework. I will not go see a movie with my friends. I will not start an influential underground rock band. Tonight I will be sitting in the standard issue Boston University Chair in my room, staring at the telephone and waiting for it to ring.

What makes this different from other Friday nights, you might ask? Well, not much, sadly enough, but there is one important difference: I will be waiting for the phone call that will make me famous.

A few weeks ago, I joined a few hundred college students in anxiously waiting outside the tall glass doors of the Cambridge Marriott. We were made to stand in a line for two hours, and then herded into a small conference room to take a test - all voluntarily. Why? Because we all wanted to get in the coveted "hot seat" of ABC's nine-times-a-week ratings savior and fine example of riveting television "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?"

I sat in a group of about 250 as I worked my way through a never-ending series of "fastest fingers" style questions, which also managed to show me how hopelessly out of touch I am with pop culture. I can nail any geography or history questions, but ask me which silicone diva was born first: Britney Aguilera or Christina Spears, and my eyes glaze over and I start humming "Flight Of The Bumblebee."

After I was told my humming was making too much noise and creeping out some people behind me, I plowed through the rest of the questions, turned in my test, and hoped for the best. Several minutes passed when, just like after any high school test, complete strangers became close comrades, discussing answers with each other and wishing those around them the best of luck.

Soon, the numbers of those who had passed the test were called and I, like the proverbial cream to milk - or the slightly less proverbial Fat Aunt Agnes to the even less proverbial inflatable kiddie pool - rose to the top of my competition to my next challenge: a five minute interview with a producer.

Since I had not talked to anyone new for an entire month before these tryouts, I had saved up enough social interaction points to win my interviewer over with my irresistible charm. This interviewer will tell Regis of my uncanny affability and tonight, Regis will call me and beg me to come on his show.

"Rege," I will say, for it will show that I can joke around with the master punster, "I'd love to." Then a guest and I will travel to New York City for a taping, where I will agree to the rules of the show, win at a "fastest fingers" question and answer all of the questions presented to me in a correct fashion.

Then I will be famous.

Three people have already recognized me from my tiny likeness that resides above this very column. If I win a million dollars on television then four - possibly five - people would recognize me. And I would also have a million dollars, which would allow me to build my own Student Village, except I would call it "Better Than The Student Village Because I Can Get Cable, You Poor Cable-Less Losers" either that, or "Resentment Palace." Either way, I will definitely have a sassy robot maid.

I will then have my place in the pantheon of famous game show contestants like John Carpenter, Gwyneth Paltrow and that guy who spent a year memorizing all the patterns on "Press Your Luck" so he could avoid the dreaded Whammies.

Then the endorsement deals will come and I will welcome them all, for I have no shame - on Nike, on Intel, on Warner, on Disney, McDonalds and Target, and Levis and Zenith! And way up in front, lighting the way, will be General Electric with it's adorable little red nose.

All that corporate money would definitely make my life fulfilled.

And everyone who reads this will say, "I remember back when he was writing that nice horse column." Out of the woodwork you'll come, looking for a piece of my delicious celebrity pie, which will taste like so many apples.

Or I will just sit at home and the phone will not ring. I will then travel to the nearest convenience store and purchase some foodstuffs. I will barricade myself in my room with my Boston University Chair, wrecking my digestive system with a lethal combination of Sour Skittles and Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby while periodically raising my arms to the cracked ceiling and yelling, "O why hast thou forsaken me, Regis? Why?"

Fame would be nice, but I'd settle for Skittles and ice cream, too.