Trebeck Me? Trebeck You!

I was 24 years-old when my life was forever changed by way of game show infamy. Personally, I am of the firm belief, what happened that fateful morning was the greatest thing in television history. However there seems to be a large portion of th fan base for this specific show, who found my performance not only shockingly inappropriate but also lewd and offensive. I am making direct references from emails and letters I have received from those who have viewed my episode. On a side note, who the hell writes letters anymore? Other than the incarcerated and hipsters trying to mimic their grandparents in World War II.
To all the folks who have found issues with my performance I would like to express my sincerest apologies. I am sorry that they are such horrendous tight asses. Unfortunately due licensing issues I am unable to reference the game show by nam = but can divulge the following hints:
1) The game show has been on since 1984 an been extremely popular and consistent.
2) The show is hosted by a famous Canadian who was known to don a glorious mustache,
but as the popularity of lip pubes diminished and the style was more appropriately sported by hipster douche bags and pedophiles, he opted to shave it towards the end of his career. He also passed away recently which is a huge loss.
3) The format of the show is contestants answer in the form of a question from numerous seemingly random categories.
I had been online researching something. I do not recall extactly what, but it was most likely something humerous like child slavery human trafficking or woman’s rights. This is when I receive an email from the producers of the game show encouraging young adults, such as myself, to take a qualifying test online. The results of the test would allow the producers to develop a pool of candidates to compete on the show in the upcoming tournament. Being pretty intoxicated at the time allowed me lowered inhibitions and the bannister to stifle my disgust long enough to complete the test, in what I have been told by the producers of the show was within record time and the highest score possible. As a result of the overall awesomeness whic in this case was demonstrated by dominating the field of nerds who spend thier lives studying about things which will never matter or provide humanity with any thing of substance, in this case, I am just naturally better at stuff then they are. The best part is that they actually make an effort. I was drunk and still made that test my bitch. I was contacted by a representative of the show by email the following day.
The email was written by a woman named Joanne and she was essentially begging me to be on the show. She offered a free trip to California, where the show was being filmed. They would be providing me with a free hotel stay at a five star establishment, , tickets to a concert of my choice and several other perks. I laughed at the offer at first, thinking it had to be a hoax. Like some type of scam which would somehow steal my identity or leave me susceptible to having my organs pirated and sold on the black market. After a few hours I began to realize it was legitimate and would provide me the opportunity to make a mockery of the other contestants and the show itself.

I accepted the offer. Joanne responded with her excitement and said I would be on a plane headed towards Los Angeles the following day. Attached was a flight confirmation and my hotel information.
I went outside to smoke a cigarette and saw my neighbor Mrs. Cullyshark sitting on her front porch. She is a haggard old lady, weighing maybe 90 pounds, with skin like distressed leather that had been bleached by the sun. She spoke with a thick Irish brogue and had cutting blue/grayish eyes. Her hair was blindingly white and always pulled back out of her face in a tight bun. I had always attempted to be pleasant over the past year I was living at my apartment however she was so ingrained with hatred that she was impervious to my charm. We made eye contact and she gave me the finger as I stood there caught halfway between a wave and being frozen in embarrassment. I light my cigarette staring at her, watching her old decrepit form wither even further into a geriatric in front of my eyes. She turned and began the journey into her home. I watched with a small glimmer of hope, hop that she fell down the porch stairs. She made it through the door without incident and the door slammed behind her as she disappeared into the dark shadow of the interior of her house. I casually walked across the street and knocked her garbage cans over with a satisfying kick. I spun around on my heels and walked back to my apartment, satisfied with the of Mrs. Cullyshark mulling around on the city sidewalk picking up assorted old people trash and chasing her trash cans around. I picture a Monty Python ski being played out in the neighborhood and I relish my passive aggressive behavior.
A driver is waiting for me as I come down the escalator towards baggage claim at LAX. Right from the start I know it is going to be an interesting ride with this guy behind the wheel. WhenI first see the driver I am hit with the intuition he has been smoking crack or possibly meth for three days or more. This is based on the fact that he looks like a strung out terrorist and also, we are in California. I am like 90 percent sure they put a little meth in the water out here, like fluoride back home. The driver is skittish, running all over the place unsuccessfully trying to collect my bags from the carousel. We eventually wrangle my two suitcases and head towards the car. The guy smells like a falafel cart fire, if the cart that caught fire was smeared with human shit first. He seemed to think dousing himself with a bottle of cologne would successfully replace the need to shower regularly, especially in the 90 degree heat. It did nothing but complicate the odor. It was so bad it could be bottled and sold to foreign dictators to use when they gas their own people. We drive to the hotel and I lean my head out of the passenger side window in attempts to escape the putridness of this man. The constant swerving and slamming on the breaks, plus the erratic driving which is normal of the livery industry, leads me to feel genuine concern of decapitation if I leave my head hanging out of the window. I take a deep breath and bring my head back into the car, praying or the suffering to end. It eventually doe, thirty minutes later when we come to a screeching halt in front of the hotel.
I thank the driver for not killing me, exit the car and remove my bags from the trunk. I am ushered into the hotel lobby by wheat I can only assume is a 23 year old GED recipient, single mother of 4, whose title has been churched up to read concierge. Let’s not get lost in the semantics debates whether or not this chick is a trailer apart hooker or a model employee, it doesn’t matter for my story of greatness. Just know she reeked of bad life decisions. The only

thing missing from this chick’s persona is a tattoo of a lone wolf silhouette howling at the moon on her shoulder. I keep my internal decrees to myself.
I am given my key card and granted access to this hip LA hotel. The place has the ambiance of unjustified elitism, pompous and desperately modern. Rather than heading to my room with my bags, I send the bellhop to complete the task and I head to the bar in the lobby to lubricate myself with copious amounts of alcohol. I figure in order to make the soulness blood suckers of LA tolerable I would get intoxicated until I either pass myself or pass out, or both. Preferably the latter first to save myself the embarrassment. This would render me impervious to the atrocious ness of LA, thus not having to deal with the people at all. In my experience, interactions with natives of LA is on par with with watching the September 11th attacks if the towers were filled with children and puppies. I can not express to you how opposed I was to socializing without these people, they are truly awful.
The bartender is attentive enough, working for tips, it is expected. I force conversation with the parasite pouring my drinks until I get bored. The conversation is based on the guy’s bar tending until his acting career gains momentum. I make the comment, “I wasn’t aware the gay porn industry was such a tough nut to crack.”
Unfazed, he seamlessly ignored my pithy comment. Unfazed and unaware of my annoyance he just keeps going on and on about his career aspirations. My mouth sometimes operates with reckless abandonment and I make a rather irritating noise which I best describe as a dying mousse being raped by a much larger, mentally challenged moose. I bellow, “Ehhhhh ahhhhh Ohhhh!!” This confused the bartender initially but eventually he got angry. I refuse to stop making this noise and he gives up eventually ad walks away with a disguised look on his stupid looking face.
I pound my fourth drink and a different bartender over, beckoning for his attention by casually throwing a bowl of mixed nuts , which were most likely coated with a coupe different venereal diseases on the ground in his direction. The guy looks disinterested, which I find admirable at the time. He leaves the bottle of whiskey, per my request, and I begin to pour my own drinks.
Initially, I use the glass he left in front of me but eventually I find it to be superfluous. I decide to streamline the intoxication process, trimming the fat off the ritual. I pour the liquor directly into my mouth, essentially elevating the middle man from the situation. I soon pull the easy pour nozzle from the top of the bottle with my teeth and sip it back behind the bar. The bar back is a young kid and has a look of concern in his eyes when the metal object bounces off the rubber mat near his feet. He looked up at me and I say, “I won’t be needing that.”
I black out shortly after because the rest of the night is a blank reel.
When I wake up in the morning I am only wearing a pair of converse sneakers, literally nothing else. I find it strange, but do not think too much because I am worried the inevitable hangover is about to crush me, but surprisingly it doesn’t come. The relief is short lived as I soon realized

the aforementioned trailer park queen from the concierge desk in the lobby is laying naked in my hotel bed next to me. I have a small panic attack.
Sating a quick prayer that I woe a condom, I wonder if my dick is going to fall off and say another prayer that it doesn’t. I lit a cigarette and looked at my watch sitting on the bedside table, it is 8:06 a.m. I shower attempting to collect myself and wash the slut residue remaining on me from the prior nights exhibitions, but I know that it’s futile. I am typically a erratic mess so I am not really thrown off by the way the morning seems to be going. When I get out of the shower the girl is sitting up in the bed with a huge smile and hair all of the facing place. In way she looks better this way and for a second i understand what drunk me was thinking asking her up here. Her hair is cut all randomly and designer like, made to look as if she cut it herself. It must be an LA thing to pay for hair that looks like a four year old gave you secret bangs under the kitchen table, like my sisters did when we were young. She is pretty in the morning sun and wrapped in the white hotel sheets she looks almost angelic. The angles of her face and the smeared makeup give her a punk look I am a sucker for. She smiles again and tells me I am not allowed to smoke in the rooms at the hotel. I remind her she is on duty and walk towards the closet.
We order breakfast and after some conversation I figure out she is fantastic. She I intelligent and witty. She is a implant here in LA, originally from Boston. It makes sense. I like her more than I ever thought possible based on my previous evening perception of her.
I ask her, “Hw many kids do you have?”
She looks at me with a semi-disgusted face and says, “Gross, none. Kids suck and literally ruin your life.”
At this point I my have fallen in love with her a little bit. I am abashed over my preconceived notion but quickly get over it.
Then she says, “you were a riot last night.” I ask her to please classify.
“Hotel security was trying to throw you out of here last night, but because you are here a guest of the studio they couldn’t. You started playing the piano in the lobby after pushing pianist off the bench, which was funny to start. He fell off the bench and just laid there all confused like the old ladyfromtheLifeAlertcommercialsfromthe90’s. Youknowtheones?”
“Of course I do. The, “Ive fallen and I can’t get up” lady.”
She smiled, shaking her head and began again, “ You were actually playing very well. The manager wasn’t being too aggressive when asking you to stop. He actually ended up asking

you permission for the hired pianist to take his seat again. You only berated the manager, my boss, mildly, but in this fun way through song and then bowed after getting up. People actually had gathered around in the midst of everything to watch, they applauded when you stood up!”
I picked up the whisky bottle from the previous night sitting on the tv stand of the room. I pour a drink into the fake crystal glasses sitting by the ice bucket which are always wrapped in fukcig plastic. It sits uncomfortably in my hand with the protruding triangles of glass sticking out of the sides. It is heavier than I would think and I imagine throwing in through the window, which makes me smile for some reason. I think of asking her where these glasses are purchased from so I can find out who is responsible for desgining these awful vessels but do not. Censoring myself is an unusual thing but for some reason I feel the need.
I slug back the whiskey and remember bits and clips from my performance the previous night. I was singing a Warren Zevon song. For some reason I alsways think I am a seventies rock star when I get drunk.
I ask, “What else happened?”
“Nothing else to note really. After the piano thing, you walked over to my desk and asked e what time I was getting off wrk. Before I could answer, you blurted out, ‘cause you’re going to get some dick!’ I thought it was funny so when I got off a few minutes later we came up here and hung out.”
She used her fingers to mimic quotation marks when she sad “hung out” so I assumed it meant had sex. I mentally high five Ed myself because this chic was a catch and also said another prayer that I hadn’t caught anything from her.
We ate breakfast and she left. She said she had things to take care of which as cool because I didn’t have to tell her to leave. After she left I got dressed in a pair of jeans which were distressed but not torn, converse sneakers, a t shirt and casual sports coat. I looked in the mirror and read the t shirt in the backwards reflection, the read letters stood out on the white shirt, “what are you looking at dicknose?” It always made me laugh, which i did again,
I felt like it was appropriate for national television. I clipped a pair of thin suspenders on and allowed the to hang loosely beneath the suit coat.
My face had about a week of growth, which was strategically trimmed with a razor around the edges and beneath the chin. The length was adjusted with clippers to be perfect. My dirty blond hair was elegantly disheveled and I was happy with the way my face seemed to stay youthful and tight though I had been drinking pretty aggressively for th past three years. I winked at my own reflection and said, “You’ve got this.”

I could understand why woman find me attractive, but still didn’t get why they agreed to have sex with me so often. I shrugged it off and made my way to meet the driver in the lobby for the taping of the first show.
I met the driver in the lobby. As I entered he approached me immediately, I wondered how he knew I was the person he was picking up. I asked him the same and he smiled and said, “They told me to look for a guy from the east coast. I assume that it is you I am driving?”
He was a older guy with sun tanned skin that was permanently darkened by the west coast sun and too much exposure. He wore a poor fitted suit and Oakley sun glasses. He smiled naturally and radiated a sense of ease. He continued, “You are probably the only east coaster in the place man, and you exude it.”
The drive to the studio was uneventful and I got a little rest on the way which I needed. The prior night was catching up to me quickly and the drinks from earlier were wearing off. When we pulled into the studio through the gate at the entrance I felt like a rock star for a moment. He drove through a maze of similar looking buildings, all containing a set for some show or scenes for a movie in production. It was surreal to see everything I’ve seen on television over the years being made in realtime. When we stopped I opened my own door and told the driver, “Cool your heels, I’ve got it man. Have a good one.”
The driver held up two fingers and said, “Take it easy brother.”
I walk through the entrance of the studio building and am surprise with the enthusiasm I am greeted with by a young woman who is presumably a production assistant. Her name is Michelle and she was energetic and overly attentive. It was if these folks thought I had cured cancer or found a preventative measure for premature ejaculation. They were too excited for my arrival, then I realized it was LA and these people are soulless fake monsters.
I will admit that the female population in LA is overwhelmingly attractive. Like murder your own child for a chick because she said she doesn’t want children kind of hot. They catch if these women do not have emotional depth or register on the human spectrum.
I am led to a dressing room where another woman stands in front of a rack of clothing. There are three outfits laying on a table for my selection once I enter. The wardrobe assistant in the room is named Quinn, when she introduces herself I laugh and say, “I bet you’re from California.”
She says, “Born and raised.”
I tell her not to worry about the outfits, I would be cool in what I was wearing. She seemed to get all discouraged and huffy. I then escalated the situation by telling her, “Hit the bricks and send me something to drink preferably something with whiskey in it, and nothing else. So to clarify, just whiskey.”

I lit a cigarette and sat in an overstuffed leather chair waiting for Quinn to bring the whiskey back. She knocked lightly on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. She came in holding a few airplane bottles of Jameson and a glass. She put them down on the table and gave me a concerned look. She asked, “Are you alright?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “That is subjective. Who is really ‘okay’?”
She gave me a half-hearted smile and turned to exit the room. She did it gracefully like she had a talent for leaving. I was left alone and felt better with a drink and great after the second. The whiskey warmed my throat and stomach as I inhaled the smoke of my cigarette exhaling plumes of grey-blue smoke into the air.
As I sat there I asked myself why I was so angry with these people/. I was filled with this loathing feeling, so much hate? They had never done anything to me directly, but for some unseen reason, I hated them all. They were living their lives the way they determined to be the best way, even though I did not agree with what they did was in fact living. I tried to brush off the hostility and refused to allow it to ruin this day. I brushed off the hostility like crabs on Sunday morning. I decided to solely focus on the task at hand, to destroy the other contestants for the sake of entertainment and self-gratification.
An hour later Quinn came back to my dressing room and told me they were waiting for me onset. She led down winding corridors onto a stage surrounded by stadium seating for approximately 75 people. They were filled to cpacity with what appeared to be out of shpae tourists and the unemployed of the greater LA area. Scanning the crowd I noticed approximately 6 fanny packs and 2 mullets. The fanny packs made me think of a close friend which is a great story but completely unrelated to mine. But for the sake of not leaving you guessing, I will tell you an abriviated version, mainly to embarrass him.
My close friend Chris contracted syphilis which went undiagnosed for over a year. Ignoring the early wanring signs of the disease he continued to ignore what I can only imagine to be pretty brual symptoms, hoping they would go away and fix itself. The type of thing you hear about and just shake your head a the utter lack of self preservation . The syphiallis eventually becomes so uncontrallable and out of control, like a chimpanzee on cocaine, there is not much they can do to stop it. My friend gets a PIC line implanted, which is a intrevenous line directly into his chest by his heart, in order to deliver constant antibiotics to attempt to fight the bacrerial infection. He shows up at a party with a fanny pack on (containing the pump) after being MIA for over a year. I immediately photograph him with my cell phone becuase he is wearing a fuckling fanny pack!! He responds by asking me “seriously” not to post the picture to Facebook or Instagram, whihc I am literally doing as he is telling me not to. I use the caption “look who is bringing back the 90s’! Just kidding, he has syphalis!!” I told him I was unaware that syphalis not only affeected your mind and dick, but also gave him poor fashion choices and terrible decision making ability. He laughed at this but it was short lived once he immeditely began getting text messages from poepl about my post. He was upset.

I took my place at the podium I was assigned and asked to write my name on a digital display whihc would be shown during the rounds to the audience and cameras. I found this to be a good time to start the debachery I planned so I wrote my “name” on the small screen and when the technicians put them up onto the front display my name read “Shamus McNasty” and with ominous title my glourious performance began.
There were two other contestants on the stage with me. First, was Todd Bridges. Not the actor who played Willis, Gary Colemna’s brother in Different Strokes in the 80s’. This Todd was neither blakc nor was he a raging coke addict, presumabnly, but who knows for sure. He was from Florida so he could have been a coke head. Todd wrote in cursive whihc was hilarious to me, seeing how he is not a WWII soilder wirting a letter to his best gal back in Kentucky. A fortyssomthing male writing in cursive was only the first bullet in a full clip of comedy I had to fire at this dude.
Todd dressed as if his mother had laid his clothes out for him the night before. He wore a turquoise and taupe sweater, straight out of tjhe 80s’. His collared shirt beneath was permanently crooked somehow, giving him the look of someone who had just been accosted for lunch money. His pants were soft denim, in a hue of blue suited better for a nursery than mens pants. He wore plastic-rimmed glasses from the same era as the rest of the outfit, with his hair parted in the middle with some unknown substance which left it looking perpetually wet. A look that made you recoil when thinking of running your fingers through it. Initially I thought he might have been dressed this way ironically in order to play to the nerd crowd who enjoyed this show. After observing him for a few minutes a came to the conclusion he was not being ironical. I found him giving himself a pep talk in a mirror off stage, fists clenched awkwardly laughed to myself thinking of this man as a cartoon, he couldn’t be serious. He introduced himself to me and I immediately took the opportunity. I asked him if he smelled that, sniffing the air. He asked, “What?”
“Smells KY and bad decisions,” I replied. He said nothing. So I asked him, “What have you been up to sailor?” using my most inquisitive tone and and raising my eyebrows suggestively. “I figured with the cursive handwriting and that sweater you are wearing …” He walked away confused and in a huff.
I laughed at his expense and gave myself a mental high five for being hysterical. The producer smiled awkwardly and relcutantly ushered me to the next contestant I was competing against.
The unconventional appearance of this woman was an aggrevated ocular assault. She would best be described as a “handsome” woman, a crime against beauty. I desperately quelled myself urge to turn and sprint in the opposite direction. Her mouth was gigantic with teeth protruding from beneath her nose, like stalagmites. Her eyes were best described as beedy. Her voice had a thick accent which I placed from Staten Island, N.Y. She was dressed in a collared button shirt which had a embroidered cat on the pocket on the left chest. Her pleated pants were yellow and she wore a sweater with sombreros all over it.

I introduced myself a Chet Dingleberry and she attempted to make eye contact but the fact she had what appeared to be a lazy eye made it somewhat difficult. She said her name was Darla Grable. I couldn’t stop looking at her lazy eye. It appeared to ricochet off the side of her ocular cavity and then be drawn back too the centers when the process would happen again. It was like a turbulent game of ping pong in her head. It was fascinating and really distracting. I found myself having to ask “What?” Several times during the producer and Darla’s conversation with me.
While walking back to my podium with the producer I said under breath, “Good God that is what nightmares are made of.”
The producer actually laughed. I looked over at her and smiled. She shook her head and smiled back. Placing her hand on my back leading me to my spot she wished me luck and left me standing there by myself. I was feeling really good.
One of the tech people came up to the stage and explained to us how the device used for buzzing in to answer questions worked. It was incredibly simple and I laughed at the idea of someone actually having questions. Then Darla asked, “So we just press the button on top? Do we have to use our thumb or does any finger work?”
I shook my head in disbelief and said, “This is going to be too fucking easy.”
The three of us stood at the podium awaiting the theme song to begin I imagined convicts waiting at the gallows. All of the sudden the theme song began and an announcer began announcing the show, he said each of our names and then introduced the host. Who then came walking out onto the stage.
When the announcer introduced each contestant the camera would film a close up of the respected person. The announcer said “Shamus McNasty” a portable toilet maintenance technician from Albuquerque, New Mexico. I gave a tilted head high school year book look into the camera. I tried to make it as awkward as possible.
The camera panned over to Todd Bridges who wa trying to look stoic. I slid my hand into the frame of the camera and gave Todd the finger. So all the at home audieance saw was Todd and then my arm extending my hand 3 inches from his face and my middle finger sticking up. Todd never even acknowledged my presence, whihc i think made it so much funnier. He just stood thier grimacing into the camera hoping it would pan to the next person.
The camera eventually went to Darla who was remarkably ugly. She was allegedly a stay at home mother from Wichita, Kansas. I ad reasonable doubts tha anyone could stomach having sex with her, so I questioned her title. To let my concern be known, I yelled out “I feel bad for that guy!!” The audience half laughed and half inhaled sharply as if offended. Darla just snappped her head to loo at me with contempt.

The host then made his appearance at a podium adjacent to ours. He was friendly, in a used car salesman way. He was the type of of guy who shits while in the bathtub and just sat in it. He had a mannequin like expression, soulless eyes, glassed over and dark. He had big chicklet teeth on the top row he showed when he smiled. His lower teeth however were like randomly severed telephone poles place sporadically along the bottom gum. I wanted to punch him in the face immediately, and felt my expression turn into a devilish smirk. He introduced himself and began reading the subject categories we would be choosing our questions from.
American Presidents, Tourist Desrtinations, Native Americans, Local Foods and American Authors.
The returning champion is allowed to pick the first category. Darla was just that and she choose Native Americans for $200.00.
“The first settlers of the colonies were met by them.”
I rang my buzzer first. My answer, “What were the looks of fear and pleas of mercy by the indigenous people of the land?”
The host was speechless for a second. The podium turned red and a buzzer sounded, denying my answer. I do not remember the politically correct answer they wanted, but I do remember Todd Bridges smug expression when he answered correctly.
I leaned over to Todd and said, “Fuck you Todd. You dick.”
I was in the the proverbially red now. I was negative $200.00 because of my incorrect answer. Todd then choose Tourist Destinations for $200.
The host read the next question, “This is the city that never sleeps.”
I buzzed in again. I answered, “If that was a person who never sleeps with a woman, I think we would know the answer is going to be Todd here,” I pointed my thumb at Todd, “but the answer is What is New York.”
I was back at $0.00 because I was correct. It was my choice now.
The game went on like this for about twenty minutes. I became negative $1500.00 and my waking hangover had begun to sink in. I mocked each contestant when they would answer correctly and cursed like a sailor when I was incorrect.
I was eventually escorted out of the building and asked not to return to the game show.

I was 24 years-old when my life was forever changed by way of game show infamy. Personally, I am of the firm belief, what happened that fateful morning was the greatest thing in television history. However there seems to be a large portion of th fan base for this specific show, who found my performance not only shockingly inappropriate but also lewd and offensive. I am making direct references from emails and letters I have received from those who have viewed my episode. On a side note, who the hell writes letters anymore? Other than the incarcerated and hipsters trying to mimic their grandparents in World War II.
To all the folks who have found issues with my performance I would like to express my sincerest apologies. I am sorry that they are such horrendous tight asses. Unfortunately due licensing issues I am unable to reference the game show by nam = but can divulge the following hints:
1) The game show has been on since 1984 an been extremely popular and consistent.
2) The show is hosted by a famous Canadian who was known to don a glorious mustache,
but as the popularity of lip pubes diminished and the style was more appropriately sported by hipster douche bags and pedophiles, he opted to shave it towards the end of his career. He also passed away recently which is a huge loss.
3) The format of the show is contestants answer in the form of a question from numerous seemingly random categories.
I had been online researching something. I do not recall extactly what, but it was most likely something humerous like child slavery human trafficking or woman’s rights. This is when I receive an email from the producers of the game show encouraging young adults, such as myself, to take a qualifying test online. The results of the test would allow the producers to develop a pool of candidates to compete on the show in the upcoming tournament. Being pretty intoxicated at the time allowed me lowered inhibitions and the bannister to stifle my disgust long enough to complete the test, in what I have been told by the producers of the show was within record time and the highest score possible. As a result of the overall awesomeness whic in this case was demonstrated by dominating the field of nerds who spend thier lives studying about things which will never matter or provide humanity with any thing of substance, in this case, I am just naturally better at stuff then they are. The best part is that they actually make an effort. I was drunk and still made that test my bitch. I was contacted by a representative of the show by email the following day.
The email was written by a woman named Joanne and she was essentially begging me to be on the show. She offered a free trip to California, where the show was being filmed. They would be providing me with a free hotel stay at a five star establishment, , tickets to a concert of my choice and several other perks. I laughed at the offer at first, thinking it had to be a hoax. Like some type of scam which would somehow steal my identity or leave me susceptible to having my organs pirated and sold on the black market. After a few hours I began to realize it was legitimate and would provide me the opportunity to make a mockery of the other contestants and the show itself.

I accepted the offer. Joanne responded with her excitement and said I would be on a plane headed towards Los Angeles the following day. Attached was a flight confirmation and my hotel information.
I went outside to smoke a cigarette and saw my neighbor Mrs. Cullyshark sitting on her front porch. She is a haggard old lady, weighing maybe 90 pounds, with skin like distressed leather that had been bleached by the sun. She spoke with a thick Irish brogue and had cutting blue/grayish eyes. Her hair was blindingly white and always pulled back out of her face in a tight bun. I had always attempted to be pleasant over the past year I was living at my apartment however she was so ingrained with hatred that she was impervious to my charm. We made eye contact and she gave me the finger as I stood there caught halfway between a wave and being frozen in embarrassment. I light my cigarette staring at her, watching her old decrepit form wither even further into a geriatric in front of my eyes. She turned and began the journey into her home. I watched with a small glimmer of hope, hop that she fell down the porch stairs. She made it through the door without incident and the door slammed behind her as she disappeared into the dark shadow of the interior of her house. I casually walked across the street and knocked her garbage cans over with a satisfying kick. I spun around on my heels and walked back to my apartment, satisfied with the of Mrs. Cullyshark mulling around on the city sidewalk picking up assorted old people trash and chasing her trash cans around. I picture a Monty Python ski being played out in the neighborhood and I relish my passive aggressive behavior.
A driver is waiting for me as I come down the escalator towards baggage claim at LAX. Right from the start I know it is going to be an interesting ride with this guy behind the wheel. WhenI first see the driver I am hit with the intuition he has been smoking crack or possibly meth for three days or more. This is based on the fact that he looks like a strung out terrorist and also, we are in California. I am like 90 percent sure they put a little meth in the water out here, like fluoride back home. The driver is skittish, running all over the place unsuccessfully trying to collect my bags from the carousel. We eventually wrangle my two suitcases and head towards the car. The guy smells like a falafel cart fire, if the cart that caught fire was smeared with human shit first. He seemed to think dousing himself with a bottle of cologne would successfully replace the need to shower regularly, especially in the 90 degree heat. It did nothing but complicate the odor. It was so bad it could be bottled and sold to foreign dictators to use when they gas their own people. We drive to the hotel and I lean my head out of the passenger side window in attempts to escape the putridness of this man. The constant swerving and slamming on the breaks, plus the erratic driving which is normal of the livery industry, leads me to feel genuine concern of decapitation if I leave my head hanging out of the window. I take a deep breath and bring my head back into the car, praying or the suffering to end. It eventually doe, thirty minutes later when we come to a screeching halt in front of the hotel.
I thank the driver for not killing me, exit the car and remove my bags from the trunk. I am ushered into the hotel lobby by wheat I can only assume is a 23 year old GED recipient, single mother of 4, whose title has been churched up to read concierge. Let’s not get lost in the semantics debates whether or not this chick is a trailer apart hooker or a model employee, it doesn’t matter for my story of greatness. Just know she reeked of bad life decisions. The only

thing missing from this chick’s persona is a tattoo of a lone wolf silhouette howling at the moon on her shoulder. I keep my internal decrees to myself.
I am given my key card and granted access to this hip LA hotel. The place has the ambiance of unjustified elitism, pompous and desperately modern. Rather than heading to my room with my bags, I send the bellhop to complete the task and I head to the bar in the lobby to lubricate myself with copious amounts of alcohol. I figure in order to make the soulness blood suckers of LA tolerable I would get intoxicated until I either pass myself or pass out, or both. Preferably the latter first to save myself the embarrassment. This would render me impervious to the atrocious ness of LA, thus not having to deal with the people at all. In my experience, interactions with natives of LA is on par with with watching the September 11th attacks if the towers were filled with children and puppies. I can not express to you how opposed I was to socializing without these people, they are truly awful.
The bartender is attentive enough, working for tips, it is expected. I force conversation with the parasite pouring my drinks until I get bored. The conversation is based on the guy’s bar tending until his acting career gains momentum. I make the comment, “I wasn’t aware the gay porn industry was such a tough nut to crack.”
Unfazed, he seamlessly ignored my pithy comment. Unfazed and unaware of my annoyance he just keeps going on and on about his career aspirations. My mouth sometimes operates with reckless abandonment and I make a rather irritating noise which I best describe as a dying mousse being raped by a much larger, mentally challenged moose. I bellow, “Ehhhhh ahhhhh Ohhhh!!” This confused the bartender initially but eventually he got angry. I refuse to stop making this noise and he gives up eventually ad walks away with a disguised look on his stupid looking face.
I pound my fourth drink and a different bartender over, beckoning for his attention by casually throwing a bowl of mixed nuts , which were most likely coated with a coupe different venereal diseases on the ground in his direction. The guy looks disinterested, which I find admirable at the time. He leaves the bottle of whiskey, per my request, and I begin to pour my own drinks.
Initially, I use the glass he left in front of me but eventually I find it to be superfluous. I decide to streamline the intoxication process, trimming the fat off the ritual. I pour the liquor directly into my mouth, essentially elevating the middle man from the situation. I soon pull the easy pour nozzle from the top of the bottle with my teeth and sip it back behind the bar. The bar back is a young kid and has a look of concern in his eyes when the metal object bounces off the rubber mat near his feet. He looked up at me and I say, “I won’t be needing that.”
I black out shortly after because the rest of the night is a blank reel.
When I wake up in the morning I am only wearing a pair of converse sneakers, literally nothing else. I find it strange, but do not think too much because I am worried the inevitable hangover is about to crush me, but surprisingly it doesn’t come. The relief is short lived as I soon realized

the aforementioned trailer park queen from the concierge desk in the lobby is laying naked in my hotel bed next to me. I have a small panic attack.
Sating a quick prayer that I woe a condom, I wonder if my dick is going to fall off and say another prayer that it doesn’t. I lit a cigarette and looked at my watch sitting on the bedside table, it is 8:06 a.m. I shower attempting to collect myself and wash the slut residue remaining on me from the prior nights exhibitions, but I know that it’s futile. I am typically a erratic mess so I am not really thrown off by the way the morning seems to be going. When I get out of the shower the girl is sitting up in the bed with a huge smile and hair all of the facing place. In way she looks better this way and for a second i understand what drunk me was thinking asking her up here. Her hair is cut all randomly and designer like, made to look as if she cut it herself. It must be an LA thing to pay for hair that looks like a four year old gave you secret bangs under the kitchen table, like my sisters did when we were young. She is pretty in the morning sun and wrapped in the white hotel sheets she looks almost angelic. The angles of her face and the smeared makeup give her a punk look I am a sucker for. She smiles again and tells me I am not allowed to smoke in the rooms at the hotel. I remind her she is on duty and walk towards the closet.
We order breakfast and after some conversation I figure out she is fantastic. She I intelligent and witty. She is a implant here in LA, originally from Boston. It makes sense. I like her more than I ever thought possible based on my previous evening perception of her.
I ask her, “Hw many kids do you have?”
She looks at me with a semi-disgusted face and says, “Gross, none. Kids suck and literally ruin your life.”
At this point I my have fallen in love with her a little bit. I am abashed over my preconceived notion but quickly get over it.
Then she says, “you were a riot last night.” I ask her to please classify.
“Hotel security was trying to throw you out of here last night, but because you are here a guest of the studio they couldn’t. You started playing the piano in the lobby after pushing pianist off the bench, which was funny to start. He fell off the bench and just laid there all confused like the old ladyfromtheLifeAlertcommercialsfromthe90’s. Youknowtheones?”
“Of course I do. The, “Ive fallen and I can’t get up” lady.”
She smiled, shaking her head and began again, “ You were actually playing very well. The manager wasn’t being too aggressive when asking you to stop. He actually ended up asking

you permission for the hired pianist to take his seat again. You only berated the manager, my boss, mildly, but in this fun way through song and then bowed after getting up. People actually had gathered around in the midst of everything to watch, they applauded when you stood up!”
I picked up the whisky bottle from the previous night sitting on the tv stand of the room. I pour a drink into the fake crystal glasses sitting by the ice bucket which are always wrapped in fukcig plastic. It sits uncomfortably in my hand with the protruding triangles of glass sticking out of the sides. It is heavier than I would think and I imagine throwing in through the window, which makes me smile for some reason. I think of asking her where these glasses are purchased from so I can find out who is responsible for desgining these awful vessels but do not. Censoring myself is an unusual thing but for some reason I feel the need.
I slug back the whiskey and remember bits and clips from my performance the previous night. I was singing a Warren Zevon song. For some reason I alsways think I am a seventies rock star when I get drunk.
I ask, “What else happened?”
“Nothing else to note really. After the piano thing, you walked over to my desk and asked e what time I was getting off wrk. Before I could answer, you blurted out, ‘cause you’re going to get some dick!’ I thought it was funny so when I got off a few minutes later we came up here and hung out.”
She used her fingers to mimic quotation marks when she sad “hung out” so I assumed it meant had sex. I mentally high five Ed myself because this chic was a catch and also said another prayer that I hadn’t caught anything from her.
We ate breakfast and she left. She said she had things to take care of which as cool because I didn’t have to tell her to leave. After she left I got dressed in a pair of jeans which were distressed but not torn, converse sneakers, a t shirt and casual sports coat. I looked in the mirror and read the t shirt in the backwards reflection, the read letters stood out on the white shirt, “what are you looking at dicknose?” It always made me laugh, which i did again,
I felt like it was appropriate for national television. I clipped a pair of thin suspenders on and allowed the to hang loosely beneath the suit coat.
My face had about a week of growth, which was strategically trimmed with a razor around the edges and beneath the chin. The length was adjusted with clippers to be perfect. My dirty blond hair was elegantly disheveled and I was happy with the way my face seemed to stay youthful and tight though I had been drinking pretty aggressively for th past three years. I winked at my own reflection and said, “You’ve got this.”

I could understand why woman find me attractive, but still didn’t get why they agreed to have sex with me so often. I shrugged it off and made my way to meet the driver in the lobby for the taping of the first show.
I met the driver in the lobby. As I entered he approached me immediately, I wondered how he knew I was the person he was picking up. I asked him the same and he smiled and said, “They told me to look for a guy from the east coast. I assume that it is you I am driving?”
He was a older guy with sun tanned skin that was permanently darkened by the west coast sun and too much exposure. He wore a poor fitted suit and Oakley sun glasses. He smiled naturally and radiated a sense of ease. He continued, “You are probably the only east coaster in the place man, and you exude it.”
The drive to the studio was uneventful and I got a little rest on the way which I needed. The prior night was catching up to me quickly and the drinks from earlier were wearing off. When we pulled into the studio through the gate at the entrance I felt like a rock star for a moment. He drove through a maze of similar looking buildings, all containing a set for some show or scenes for a movie in production. It was surreal to see everything I’ve seen on television over the years being made in realtime. When we stopped I opened my own door and told the driver, “Cool your heels, I’ve got it man. Have a good one.”
The driver held up two fingers and said, “Take it easy brother.”
I walk through the entrance of the studio building and am surprise with the enthusiasm I am greeted with by a young woman who is presumably a production assistant. Her name is Michelle and she was energetic and overly attentive. It was if these folks thought I had cured cancer or found a preventative measure for premature ejaculation. They were too excited for my arrival, then I realized it was LA and these people are soulless fake monsters.
I will admit that the female population in LA is overwhelmingly attractive. Like murder your own child for a chick because she said she doesn’t want children kind of hot. They catch if these women do not have emotional depth or register on the human spectrum.
I am led to a dressing room where another woman stands in front of a rack of clothing. There are three outfits laying on a table for my selection once I enter. The wardrobe assistant in the room is named Quinn, when she introduces herself I laugh and say, “I bet you’re from California.”
She says, “Born and raised.”
I tell her not to worry about the outfits, I would be cool in what I was wearing. She seemed to get all discouraged and huffy. I then escalated the situation by telling her, “Hit the bricks and send me something to drink preferably something with whiskey in it, and nothing else. So to clarify, just whiskey.”

I lit a cigarette and sat in an overstuffed leather chair waiting for Quinn to bring the whiskey back. She knocked lightly on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. She came in holding a few airplane bottles of Jameson and a glass. She put them down on the table and gave me a concerned look. She asked, “Are you alright?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “That is subjective. Who is really ‘okay’?”
She gave me a half-hearted smile and turned to exit the room. She did it gracefully like she had a talent for leaving. I was left alone and felt better with a drink and great after the second. The whiskey warmed my throat and stomach as I inhaled the smoke of my cigarette exhaling plumes of grey-blue smoke into the air.
As I sat there I asked myself why I was so angry with these people/. I was filled with this loathing feeling, so much hate? They had never done anything to me directly, but for some unseen reason, I hated them all. They were living their lives the way they determined to be the best way, even though I did not agree with what they did was in fact living. I tried to brush off the hostility and refused to allow it to ruin this day. I brushed off the hostility like crabs on Sunday morning. I decided to solely focus on the task at hand, to destroy the other contestants for the sake of entertainment and self-gratification.
An hour later Quinn came back to my dressing room and told me they were waiting for me onset. She led down winding corridors onto a stage surrounded by stadium seating for approximately 75 people. They were filled to cpacity with what appeared to be out of shpae tourists and the unemployed of the greater LA area. Scanning the crowd I noticed approximately 6 fanny packs and 2 mullets. The fanny packs made me think of a close friend which is a great story but completely unrelated to mine. But for the sake of not leaving you guessing, I will tell you an abriviated version, mainly to embarrass him.
My close friend Chris contracted syphilis which went undiagnosed for over a year. Ignoring the early wanring signs of the disease he continued to ignore what I can only imagine to be pretty brual symptoms, hoping they would go away and fix itself. The type of thing you hear about and just shake your head a the utter lack of self preservation . The syphiallis eventually becomes so uncontrallable and out of control, like a chimpanzee on cocaine, there is not much they can do to stop it. My friend gets a PIC line implanted, which is a intrevenous line directly into his chest by his heart, in order to deliver constant antibiotics to attempt to fight the bacrerial infection. He shows up at a party with a fanny pack on (containing the pump) after being MIA for over a year. I immediately photograph him with my cell phone becuase he is wearing a fuckling fanny pack!! He responds by asking me “seriously” not to post the picture to Facebook or Instagram, whihc I am literally doing as he is telling me not to. I use the caption “look who is bringing back the 90s’! Just kidding, he has syphalis!!” I told him I was unaware that syphalis not only affeected your mind and dick, but also gave him poor fashion choices and terrible decision making ability. He laughed at this but it was short lived once he immeditely began getting text messages from poepl about my post. He was upset.

I took my place at the podium I was assigned and asked to write my name on a digital display whihc would be shown during the rounds to the audience and cameras. I found this to be a good time to start the debachery I planned so I wrote my “name” on the small screen and when the technicians put them up onto the front display my name read “Shamus McNasty” and with ominous title my glourious performance began.
There were two other contestants on the stage with me. First, was Todd Bridges. Not the actor who played Willis, Gary Colemna’s brother in Different Strokes in the 80s’. This Todd was neither blakc nor was he a raging coke addict, presumabnly, but who knows for sure. He was from Florida so he could have been a coke head. Todd wrote in cursive whihc was hilarious to me, seeing how he is not a WWII soilder wirting a letter to his best gal back in Kentucky. A fortyssomthing male writing in cursive was only the first bullet in a full clip of comedy I had to fire at this dude.
Todd dressed as if his mother had laid his clothes out for him the night before. He wore a turquoise and taupe sweater, straight out of tjhe 80s’. His collared shirt beneath was permanently crooked somehow, giving him the look of someone who had just been accosted for lunch money. His pants were soft denim, in a hue of blue suited better for a nursery than mens pants. He wore plastic-rimmed glasses from the same era as the rest of the outfit, with his hair parted in the middle with some unknown substance which left it looking perpetually wet. A look that made you recoil when thinking of running your fingers through it. Initially I thought he might have been dressed this way ironically in order to play to the nerd crowd who enjoyed this show. After observing him for a few minutes a came to the conclusion he was not being ironical. I found him giving himself a pep talk in a mirror off stage, fists clenched awkwardly laughed to myself thinking of this man as a cartoon, he couldn’t be serious. He introduced himself to me and I immediately took the opportunity. I asked him if he smelled that, sniffing the air. He asked, “What?”
“Smells KY and bad decisions,” I replied. He said nothing. So I asked him, “What have you been up to sailor?” using my most inquisitive tone and and raising my eyebrows suggestively. “I figured with the cursive handwriting and that sweater you are wearing …” He walked away confused and in a huff.
I laughed at his expense and gave myself a mental high five for being hysterical. The producer smiled awkwardly and relcutantly ushered me to the next contestant I was competing against.
The unconventional appearance of this woman was an aggrevated ocular assault. She would best be described as a “handsome” woman, a crime against beauty. I desperately quelled myself urge to turn and sprint in the opposite direction. Her mouth was gigantic with teeth protruding from beneath her nose, like stalagmites. Her eyes were best described as beedy. Her voice had a thick accent which I placed from Staten Island, N.Y. She was dressed in a collared button shirt which had a embroidered cat on the pocket on the left chest. Her pleated pants were yellow and she wore a sweater with sombreros all over it.

I introduced myself a Chet Dingleberry and she attempted to make eye contact but the fact she had what appeared to be a lazy eye made it somewhat difficult. She said her name was Darla Grable. I couldn’t stop looking at her lazy eye. It appeared to ricochet off the side of her ocular cavity and then be drawn back too the centers when the process would happen again. It was like a turbulent game of ping pong in her head. It was fascinating and really distracting. I found myself having to ask “What?” Several times during the producer and Darla’s conversation with me.
While walking back to my podium with the producer I said under breath, “Good God that is what nightmares are made of.”
The producer actually laughed. I looked over at her and smiled. She shook her head and smiled back. Placing her hand on my back leading me to my spot she wished me luck and left me standing there by myself. I was feeling really good.
One of the tech people came up to the stage and explained to us how the device used for buzzing in to answer questions worked. It was incredibly simple and I laughed at the idea of someone actually having questions. Then Darla asked, “So we just press the button on top? Do we have to use our thumb or does any finger work?”
I shook my head in disbelief and said, “This is going to be too fucking easy.”
The three of us stood at the podium awaiting the theme song to begin I imagined convicts waiting at the gallows. All of the sudden the theme song began and an announcer began announcing the show, he said each of our names and then introduced the host. Who then came walking out onto the stage.
When the announcer introduced each contestant the camera would film a close up of the respected person. The announcer said “Shamus McNasty” a portable toilet maintenance technician from Albuquerque, New Mexico. I gave a tilted head high school year book look into the camera. I tried to make it as awkward as possible.
The camera panned over to Todd Bridges who wa trying to look stoic. I slid my hand into the frame of the camera and gave Todd the finger. So all the at home audieance saw was Todd and then my arm extending my hand 3 inches from his face and my middle finger sticking up. Todd never even acknowledged my presence, whihc i think made it so much funnier. He just stood thier grimacing into the camera hoping it would pan to the next person.
The camera eventually went to Darla who was remarkably ugly. She was allegedly a stay at home mother from Wichita, Kansas. I ad reasonable doubts tha anyone could stomach having sex with her, so I questioned her title. To let my concern be known, I yelled out “I feel bad for that guy!!” The audience half laughed and half inhaled sharply as if offended. Darla just snappped her head to loo at me with contempt.

The host then made his appearance at a podium adjacent to ours. He was friendly, in a used car salesman way. He was the type of of guy who shits while in the bathtub and just sat in it. He had a mannequin like expression, soulless eyes, glassed over and dark. He had big chicklet teeth on the top row he showed when he smiled. His lower teeth however were like randomly severed telephone poles place sporadically along the bottom gum. I wanted to punch him in the face immediately, and felt my expression turn into a devilish smirk. He introduced himself and began reading the subject categories we would be choosing our questions from.
American Presidents, Tourist Desrtinations, Native Americans, Local Foods and American Authors.
The returning champion is allowed to pick the first category. Darla was just that and she choose Native Americans for $200.00.
“The first settlers of the colonies were met by them.”
I rang my buzzer first. My answer, “What were the looks of fear and pleas of mercy by the indigenous people of the land?”
The host was speechless for a second. The podium turned red and a buzzer sounded, denying my answer. I do not remember the politically correct answer they wanted, but I do remember Todd Bridges smug expression when he answered correctly.
I leaned over to Todd and said, “Fuck you Todd. You dick.”
I was in the the proverbially red now. I was negative $200.00 because of my incorrect answer. Todd then choose Tourist Destinations for $200.
The host read the next question, “This is the city that never sleeps.”
I buzzed in again. I answered, “If that was a person who never sleeps with a woman, I think we would know the answer is going to be Todd here,” I pointed my thumb at Todd, “but the answer is What is New York.”
I was back at $0.00 because I was correct. It was my choice now.
The game went on like this for about twenty minutes. I became negative $1500.00 and my waking hangover had begun to sink in. I mocked each contestant when they would answer correctly and cursed like a sailor when I was incorrect.
I was eventually escorted out of the building and asked not to return to the game show.

All in all it was a pretty good day.

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