Zoom in on said projectile and follow focus so tightly that NFL Films will demand I overnight them my resumé tape.
Feign horrible pain upon impact, dropping to my knees and shrieking so theatrically that even that stoner running the C-SPAN camera will pan over my way.
Caterwaul so completely that every bomb-sniffing dog on the premises will cover their ears and join me in mid howl. I'm serious: I'll make Nancy Kerrigan sound like a lumberjack.
Shake off any assistance, limp away and then collapse until my fellow photogs throw a cloak over me and drag my crumpled form out of sight. Then I'll do it again, until the corpse of James Brown rolls what's left of his eyes.
Grant extensive interviews to any and all news crews, offering (between sobs) to recount the cruel act using finger-puppets, that is until the first network completes their computerized reenactment.
Fly overnight to New York and tell my stories to the stars. I'll hug up on Savannah Guthrie, trade man-scaping plans with Anderson Cooper and, if given the chance, bitch-slap Wolf Blitzer (Hey, why NOT?)
Score a reality show detailing my long recovery. I'm not sure how much control I'll have over it but I envision a mix of 'Intervention', and 'Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo Child'. At long last I'll get to show the world my tiara collection.
Pen a six hundred page tome detailing my slow rise to obscurity, brush with airborne peanut infamy and inevitable descent into 'Nutella' induced stupor.
Turn that book into a passable screenplay, sell it to the highest-bidding studio, campaign to play myself, then begrudgingly agree to let Bradley Cooper take over the starring role.
I just hope he can capture the real me. a