The Price is Wrong
“Millie Noe, come on down.”
Life is a game show.
I prefer stories.
And I don’t even care that all those people brought all that luggage on a three hour tour. Or that Giligan was a dweeb and Ginger was a slut.
And, just like all the other girls, I wanted to be MaryAnn.
But unfortunately, I am more like Lovey, now. Only, without all those fur coats and suitcases of money.
My slogan was, give me, The Andy Griffith Show. Turn on, The Munsters. Show me, The Beaver. But do not make me watch game shows.
I would sit down in front of the T.V. with five chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk, after a tough day of multiplication, spelling and recess. And just as I would get all settled in, a freaking game show would come on.
“Claudette Kozzelle, come on down,” Bob would Bark.
And then some lunatic in the back would begin screaming and come bouncing down the stairs with arms flailing.
“Oh, for the love of God.”
And then this hyperventilating creature would be asked to guess how much a red pepper cost.
Sven thinks that only millionaires should be able to eat red peppers.
“Oh, my God, Millie,” he said to me one day. “Did you buy that at the Pig?”
“They are $4.99 a pound there.”
“Well, I didn’t buy a hundred fucking pounds of them, Sven. I just bought one.”
But, he knew, that I had never even looked at the sign.
If I ever land on the Price is Right, I hope to God that I have to guess how much a red pepper costs. But chances are slim for either to happen.
And that is good, because I would be one of those bitches.
$3.19,” I would guess the price of the potato peeler to be, right after the other contestant guessed,”$3.20.”
It’s dog eat dog out there.
When I was a kid we couldn’t flip through five hundred channels and still not find anything to watch, the way we can today. We only had three to choose from. Technically there were four. But we didn’t count public television.
Chances are, I wouldn’t have been so turned off by game shows if they would have just had some good prizes.
They practically had to drag out the smelling salts if somebody won a washer and dryer.
“Stupid prize,” I would mutter.
In my opinion, they should have had horses and dirt bikes behind those doors. Maybe puppies and kittens. How about a strobe light or a Ouja Board?
I always chose door number two.
And now my friend Clementine lives behind it.
When some bald guy won a station wagon, complete with wood, side panels, you would have thought it was the second coming of Christ. His wife came flying out of the audience. Sirens were going off and balloons fell from the sky.
“Boring!” I yelled at the T.V. “It’s a stupid car.”
And those shows have got to be bad for your health.
Buzzers are nasty.
I will be trying to digest the question that is being read out loud by Alex and somebody will very rudely hit their button, making me jump, before he is even done reading it. And they yell out the answer, in the form of a question.
In this politically correct world, one would think that shows televising my stupidity would be frowned upon.
And on Wheel of Fortune, you have to buy a vowel.
Who wants to buy a fucking letter?
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
Remember that show?
Is it still on?
You should not want to be a millionaire.
Millionaires are unhappy people.
How do I know?
It is common sense.
First of all, millionaires don’t have to drag themselves out of bed five mornings a week, to the annoying, buzz of an alarm clock and report to some God awful job. So, how would they have any kind of a happiness scale? Every day is the same. They don’t even know what day of the week it is. So, how would they know about the Sunday night creeps? If you never have the Sunday night creeps, how would you know that Mondays are awful, Tuesdays are not so good, Wednesdays are beloved, B.S. Club Day, Thursday’s are okay, Fridays, everybody smiles at work and Saturdays are the best gosh, darn, days of the week.
“Muffin, what should we do today?”
“Oh, I don’t know Sheldy. What day is it anyway? Wednesday? We like to have lunch in New York City on Wednesdays. Don’t we?”
If I am a contestant on, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, who will be my lifeline?
Sven, my walking encyclopedia, will be golfing and he will leave his cell phone in the car.
And all my friends are another game show. Every question becomes a shouting, cheating, game of charades.
I would be best off to dial a random number.
But here is what would happen.
Millie, in What Country is the Ulanga River?
C. New Jersey
D. Lodi, Wisconsin
“Um. I think I would like to use a lifeline.”
“Okay. Who would you like us to call?”
With my luck, it would be on a Wednesday and I would get the whole B.S. Club.
We will hear the phone ring four times.
“Hi, Millie. Oh, you look so cute on T.V. Is that the outfit I gave you?”
“Yes, Mom. Listen to me. This is worth a million bucks. What country is the Ulanga River in?”
“I am going to put you on speaker phone, honey. Six brains are always better than one. Hang on.”
“She is putting me on speaker phone,” I would explain.
“Yes, we can hear her.”
“Come on, you guys. What country is the Ulanga River in?”
And then we hear over the speaker phone,”Hi, Millie.” “Hey Mill.” “Looking good Millie, even with that five extra pounds the camera is adding to ya.”
“The Ulanga River. What country is it in!”
“Hmm. The Ulanga River? Remember that movie? I think Katharine Hepburn was in it.”
“Oh, yeah. And that one guy.”
“He was kind of good looking. And he had a deep voice.”
“They were always arguing.”
“And there was a war going on.”
“You could tell they were going to fall in love.”
“I think they even get married.”
At this point I am staring the timer with saucer-like eyes.
“Hello. Anybody there? What country is the Ulanga FN’ River in?”
“Bogart,” my mom would yell. “That was Humphrey Bogart. He was the leading man.”
“Oh, yeah Bogart. Jesus, how could we forget his name?”
“Hello. It is me. Millie here. Ten seconds left you guys. What country is the Ulanga River in?”
“I’m not sure where the Ulanga River is, honey, but the movie was definitely African Queen.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, Millie. It is time for your final answer.”
And then sirens will sound and a million red peppers will fall from the sky.
And just as the phone call ends, we will hear Giselle yell. “Found it!. It is in Africa!”