21st century desperation

I have always wanted to be on a game show. My parents, half-brothers and I watched College Bowl every weekend and yelled out the answers. On days I was home sick from school I watched game shows. I loved them all, from ones I can barely remember (like College Bowl and even Queen for a Day) to ones I watched with one high school friend. She and I would play the Million Dollar Pyramid together for hours on end. We were both very good at it and I, at least, hoped to be able to get on a show like this when I was of age.

I called the phone numbers for shows like Family Feud, which I was absolutely sure my family could win (though I doubted any one would jump up and down) and even Jeopardy, which, if I got lucky, I might win, if I was blessed with a better memory and a lucky day (in which the other contestants were duds and/or they didn't have Shakespeare as a category).

I would have gone on The Price is Right if I could have, even though the kind of smarts (the price of crap food products) was something I didn't know well (but for some reason I did when I was about 10 or so).

My mother was on a game show in the 50's and it was rigged. I believe it was called "Dotto" (and if someone knows I'm wrong, please tell me). The story goes like this: My mother was offered the opportunity to cheat. Yes, this was before all the hearings and such. My mother, being who she was, thought she could beat the cheat. Now, that doesn't make much sense, but she thought she could. Of course, she did not and came home with no money and a good story.

I only recently found out that my father did indeed cheat on a radio game show, but unintentionally. He was living in Hollywood, during World War II, and he had a female friend who knew a writer on some game show. The woman was given a list of possible questions for an upcoming show and asked my father to help her memorize the answers, which he did.

The night of the show, they were to sit in the audience and the woman would be "randomly" chosen. But my father, in his spiffy Navy uniform, was picked. One for the troops, eh? Well, of course he won. I believe, but again, I may be wrong, that he won fifty bucks, but it might have been five hundred. I don't remember. But the thing of it is, he told me this story with relish, saying, "I didn't split the money with her. We didn't have a deal!" Ha! He really pulled one over on 'em all, didn't he?

So, I've got the game show bug in my blood.

This evening I searched the Web with an eye to finding out how to get on the new Password. Y'know, they just don't pick people at random any more. I suppose they never did, but now it's an industry. You need head shots, body shots, and a video interview. I'm absolutely perfect for one new show (another factoid I've forgotten-its name). This show has people hooked up to lie detectors asking them really embarrassing questions. So far, no one has "gone all the way" because their secrets are too horrible to tell (or they try to lie).

Hell, I would do it in a second. And when I realized that, I thought to myself, "You are really a whore for getting on television, aren't you?" Yes, and I am a whore for money at this moment in my life. No, I wouldn't sell my body, and besides, I doubt anyone would pay me much for that. But for my paltry secrets? Even my dirty secrets, hell, I'd tell all.

Two bit has been tells all. For money. That's what they all do, don't they?

So the kicker is, I sent an e-mail to an unknown address for yet another show, claiming to be a "groundbreaking documentary that might possibly change your life" or some such. The show, if it exists at all, and isn't some voyeur with a Gmail account reading stranger's dirty laundry all day, is looking for people who are depressed or are losers. Pick me! Pick me! C'mon, I dare you!

I am short, overweight and middle-aged with a lousy profile (I'd like to win the money for a better jawline, please). No I haven't had any plastic surgery (yet). But still, I'm perfect! I'm perfect! Pick me!

I have spent most of my life avoiding whoring myself out for money or selling myself out for the same, but y'know what? I'm done. And I probably haven't any chances left, do I? Oh well.

Photo note: I won't give you all a head shot, but here's a body part.