Despite my horrible unphotogenicness, I have an indefatigable desire to be on a game show.  It doesn’t even have to be a game show – it could be a reality TV series with a prize at the end.  It doesn’t even have to be me – it could be a friend or family member.  I just want to be a part of the process.
I think it all started with The Bozo Show.  There was nothing in this world I wanted more than the chance to play Bozo Buckets, even though I already had access to chocolate chip cookies and a bicycle and was am deathly scared of clowns.
    Should have been me.
Alas, I never tried out. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t very well Google “Bozo open casting call” back in 1988. Dan Quail probably could have, but how was I supposed to get in touch with him without Google?

My yen for game show fame fermented beneath the surface in the nineties while watching Legends of the Hidden Temple and American Gladiators. I never let myself even fantasize about competing on a show that demanded physical exertion, though. I had like 4% body fat, I was picked last for teams in P.E. and I curled into a ball on the floor whenever so much as a badminton birdie flew my way.

In college, I felt more free to pursue my dreams. Or maybe I was just more intoxicated, I don’t know. No really, I don’t know, it’s all a blur. Anyway, in 2004, I was Vice President of my sorority and wielded this mighty power to form a (temporary) alliance with a rival (as if) sorority to apply for a special edition of Trading Spaces. We didn’t even receive confirmation of our application.  Oh well, the A-O-Pi’s would have ruined our living room anyway.  They couldn’t even design a decent Homecoming sweatshirt.

That same year (2004 for those of you who never took Calculus) I was on a family vacation in Los Angeles and ran into the Street Smarts crew.  I chatted with the host, Frank Nicotero, who let me pose for a picture with the microphone.  Apparently, despite my most desperate efforts, I wasn’t amusing enough.  After 15 minutes of awkward forced conversation I walked away.

In 2007, I made it to the final round of auditions for Wheel of Fortune before they cut me, presumably because I would have cleaned house.  I did get a lovely golf pencil that said “I tried out for Wheel of Fortune,” totally making up for the four hours spent in traffic to and from auditions and the three hours of PTO I had to use.

My 2009 letter to the producers of NBC’s The Biggest Loser suggesting a special season for average-sized people to get even smoking hotter remains unanswered.

Jump to present time, where I am awaiting word on my most recent venture:  A couple months ago my sister and I applied to the show It’s Me or the Dog on the grounds that my five pound dog Mike is such a menace to society — which he is — that he requires an immediate intervention by a trained canine psychologist.  Haven’t heard anything back there, either.  Meanwhile Mike continues to terrorize the neighborhood.

Don’t let the glasses fool you.
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