I’ll Take A Blog Post About Jeopardy For $200, Alex

I’ve slowly begun to realize that my television-watching interests are very much in line with those of my eighty-two-year-old grandmother.  My favorite genres of TV shows are those that are generally recognized as favorites of only the elderly — late-night talk shows and game shows.  Since I spent a good portion of time writing about the former, I figured I’d give the latter the same treatment.  I should clarify, though, that I’m not talking about these new-fangled game shows that are popular at the moment; anything like Deal or No Deal or Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?* is the antithesis of what I believe a game show should be.  No, the ones I love are the classics that are now shown on GSN (Family Feud, Password, Match Game) and the network staples that have been on the air for thirty years — Wheel of Fortune, and, of course, the High Priest of All Game Shows: Jeopardy.

* I don’t think there has even been a title of a show that I’ve hated more than Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?  Even if I can’t remember some meaningless science fact I learned in the second grade, I’m fairly confident that I am indeed smarter than a fifth grader.  I would like to see a show where they take these little fifth grade assholes, test them on college-level questions, and humiliate the fuck out of them.

Jeopardy (technically “Jeopardy!” but I refuse to type the exclamation point) is everything God intended a game show to be.  The theme song was written by show creator Merv Griffin (whose set was stolen by Kramer), and is instantly recognizable.  The format itself is unique, what with the questions being given by the contestants.  And of course, Alex Trebek is the best game show host of all time (Pat Sajak, ima let you finish).  I have literally traversed my entire emotional spectrum with him.  Sometimes — like when he chach-ily denigrates a contestant, or attempts to say a foreign word with the exact pronunciation and emphasis — I think: what an asshole.  But most of the time —such as when he makes a pseudo-sexual remark during the player interviews, or does a physical interpretation of an answer— I think: this man is amazing.  I admit he was cooler when he had the mustache, but still.

Answer: "This person is a better host than Alex Trebek." Question: (Jeopardy studio immediately explodes into a ball of fire, because no one is better than Alex Trebek.)

Anyway, there’s a reason why I’m leading with all this.  But to get to it I have to offer a little more introduction.  Last year, when we lived in the dorms, we would often gather at 7 PM to watch Jeopardy while we ate dinner.  At that point, we were merely casual observers — we would occasionally verbalize an answer if we wished, but nothing was recorded, and it was all done in the spirit of fun competition.  Fast forward to a month ago, and we are planning events for a house-wide Beer Olympics.  In addition to the usual pong, flip cup, etc., we agreed to play one round of drunken Jeopardy (which Trashpockets and I proceeded to dominate).  That night, a ritual was born.

In all honesty, I shouldn’t even be telling you any of this.  For example, Fucktard was recently opining to a group of girls that he was the smartest one in our house.  I began to rebut this by saying that I had by far won the most Jeopardy games (we have a meticulously maintained scoreboard).  Mr. 3/5’s quickly prevented my counter-argument, however, and stated: “No, do not mention that.  The first rule of us playing Jeopardy is that you can’t talk about us playing Jeopardy.”  And he’s completely correct.  It is very pathetic that the greatest source of joy to this household seems to be the twice-a-day playing of Jeopardy.  7:30 PM on a Saturday night is the most depressing time of the week, because we know we won’t be competing again for almost forty-eight hours (the show doesn’t run on Sundays).

The main impetuous behind me writing this post was a dispute that occurred during a recent competition*.  Usually, there are many such arguments during a game of Jeopardy, but they are mostly resolved quickly.  This one, however, is still ongoing, and continues to irritate me.  So, I come to you, reader, to answer the query (a little writer-reader interaction: I like it a lot).

*I guess I should quickly explain to you the rules by which we play.  Point values for questions increase by difficulty, just like the actual show, except we use 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 points for Single Jeopardy, and 2, 4, 6,  8, and 10 points for Double Jeopardy.  Wrong answers result in point deductions.  Daily Doubles are given to the contestant who gave the last correct answer.  During Final Jeopardy, we clandestinely write down our wagers and answers on pieces of paper.

Here’s the situ-aish: Trashpockets and Fucktard each answered one same-category question in succession.  Both dealt with colloquial phrases.  The first wanted you to complete the phrase “People who live in glass houses should not throw…”  I correctly answered “stones,” while Trashpockets said “rocks” a split second after me.  Now, using the rules we play by, a wrong answer, even if uttered second, is docked points.  We had to decide, then, if Trashpockets should in fact lose points, given that “stones” and “rocks” are so similar.  It was determined, mostly by Fucktard, that since the phrase in question is very specific, the answer should also have to be specific — therefore “rocks” was unacceptable, and Trashpockets was penalized.

The next question asked you to complete the phrase “throw down the…”  Fucktard quickly yelled out “gloves,” then followed that by stating the correct answer of “gauntlet.”  Now, the general rule of thumb is that you can correct your answer, if your follow-up answer means the same thing.  For example, I once said “The FBI Building,” but then specified by saying “The J. Edgar Hoover Building.”  However, in Fucktard’s situation, the question was looking for a specific phrase.  Also, remember that it was indeed he who had been so fervent in establishing the precedent by deeming Trashpockets’ answer incorrect.  We had a vote, and Fucktard was consequently penalized for his response.  He said something to the effect of “Fuck all of you!” and stormed away, only to quickly return when he realized we would continue to play without him.

Yeah, I bet this guy gets the best out of his co-workers. What a pussy.

This whole incident took at least ten minutes.  And mind you, it was concerning the loss of only two points, which is not a lot in the whole scheme of things.  This tale only affirms the previous claim that this whole practice is pitiful.  The amount of concern, devotion, and (in Fucktard’s case) studying we put into playing a fucking game show could easily be put to better use.  But it’s not.  In fact, I am going to write to the powers-that-be at Jeopardy about the “gauntlet” controversy, and see if we can get an official ruling.  In the meantime, I implore you to vote in the following poll:

I have one final bone to pick regarding our playing of Jeopardy, and it again involves Fucktard.  Our rule (ironically, again, put in place by Fucktard himself) is that for a game to count in the standings, three people must play.  He is now trying to get that rule changed, saying the Jeff George should not count as one of the required three, given that he has yet to win a game*.  This is complete bullshit.  Jeff George is a valued member of this house and a respected Jeopardy competitor.  Yes, he has had some trouble getting victories.  What usually happens is that he correctly responds to a couple questions, gets on a roll, consequently gets trigger-happy, and then utters a string of incorrect answers.  But Jeff George will win a game before the end of the calendar year.  Mark my words.

*The scoreboard currently reads: Atlas-15, Fucktard-7, Trashpockets-6, Mr. 3/5’s-4, Jeff George-0, and Mr. P90ForLife-N/A, since he refuses to play.   Am I only telling you the scores so I can inflate my already giant ego?  Yes.  Am I only placing a link to a constantly updated scoreboard at the top right of this page so I can continue to display my complete and utter dominance?  Yes.  Am I a very vain person?  Yes, but you knew that already.

I know what you’re thinking: since we all get this much practice, we should be really good, right?  So why don’t we try out for the actual show?  I am being honest when I say I really think any of us could go on at least College Jeopardy (coincidentally, this year’s edition just took place) and perform respectably.  Unfortunately, I recently researched the online testing time for next year’s college version, and found that we had missed it by two days.  So, sadly, we will not be eligible until 2012.  So look for us then.  In the meantime, we will spend an hour every evening honing our skills, debating answers, and wondering if this is really the best use of our time.  Spoiler alert: it is.

Why I Hope The Mayan Calendar Is Right/What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

(You ever notice how authors sometimes give novels two titles?  Like Kurt Vonnegut with Slaughterhouse Five or The Children’s Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death.  I always used to think that was moronic.  I mean, someone like Vonnegut, who is obviously a literary genius, spends years carefully selecting each and every word that goes into his book.  Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words.  And then it comes time to title the thing — and he can’t make a decision?  But, of course, like most things I criticize, I have come to embrace this entity.  Moving on.)

If it’s possible to have an early-life crisis, I think I’m having one.  We were having one of our typical house discussions the other night, lamenting the fact that, in just a few years, we will be expected to be fully-functional adults contributing to society.  We’re going to be…adults.  And this does not sit well with me.  P90ForLife suggested that we shouldn’t worry about this impending responsibility, or even talk about it — he said it will just hamper our enjoyment of the next three years of college.  This is definite possibility, but unfortunately, like the fear of death engrosses Woody Allen in Annie Hall, the subject of “growing up” absolutely encompasses me.

I think the main thing that concerns people my age, with respect to their future, is their career.  This is what gives me the most fear, for I have no idea what I want to do.  Let’s start with my major: finance.  Here’s a  fact: I hate finance.  Honestly, I couldn’t even give you an accurate definition of finance.  The selling of stocks and bonds, or consulting people on their 401k, or doing whatever it is that people in finance do, infinitely bores me.  Coincidentally, I’m currently reading a Michael Lewis book called Liar’s Poker, which is about finance.  And it’s making me loathe finance even more.

What are my other “interests,” you ask?  Well, I’m also about to declare a minor in political science.  Possibly due to the fact that I watch too much Jon Stewart, I also hate politics.  I cringe any time people start debating abortion or gay rights or some other issue.  Sure, I have my opinion on such matters, but I just don’t care about them at all.  I’m probably the youngest person to ever consider themselves jaded.  If I ever got a job in politics, it will be because I have completely exhausted every other option.  I fucking hate politicians.  Sure, Barack Obama is doing an okay job, but I’m sure McCain would have been fine, as well.  I think Dennis said it best on Always Sunny: “Vote for the Democrat who’s going to blast me in the ass?  Or the Republican who’s already blasting my ass?  Either way, politics is all one big ass blasting.”

And if I ever have to get a “desk job,” I will probably commit suicide.  Let me just present two examples: my dad and Jeff George’s dad.  Both are very successful business men — my dad works for a major food company, and Jeff George’s dad owns his own insurance company.  And, as Jeff George said, they’re both fucking bored as shit with their lives.  His dad recently played 36 holes of Wii Golf.  I’ve never played Wii Golf, but I’m sure that escapade took considerable time. My dad goes to movies by himself, which is…kind of indescribably depressing.  They both call us almost every day just to make conversation.  I mean, can you blame them?  My dad spends ten hours a day discussing the market values of pallets of peanut butter and mayonnaise.

If I had my druthers, there are two careers which would render me satisfied.  First, the general manager of a NFL or MLB franchise.  (This path would have never occurred to me had I not read Moneyball.  Fuck Michael Lewis for altering my goals.)  But as Seinfeld notes, that “can be tough to get”:

The only other job I can see myself doing (and this might be obvious given the hundreds of hours I’ve devoted to writing shit on here) is writing.  Specifically, I want to pull a Salinger.  Write something amazing — a novel, a movie, I don’t really care.  Then spend the next fifty years of my life as a recluse.  When I die, people will pretend to care.  That seriously sounds amazing to me.

Since I pretty much think of myself as a celebrity in my own mind, I am constantly comparing my future life to those of characters in the entertainment world.  Here’s a few ways I could see my life turning out:

Good: Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm or Hank Moody in Californication.  Either a successful TV writer who is so rich that he can afford to be an asshole to everyone, or a novelist who gets laid all the time.

Mediocre: Mike Peters in Swingers. A terrible comedian/actor who hates everyone.

Bad: Miles Raymond in Sideways. A failed novelist who teaches middle school English.  And he’s a wino.

Absolutely Horrible: Paul Aufiero in Big Fan. A guy who gets the shit kicked out of him by his favorite NFL player, but doesn’t want to press charges because said player will be suspended.  He lives with his mother, and his life is devoted to calling into sports talk radio shows.  Also, he can’t masturbate when his team loses*.

*I’m really obsessed with fantasy football, to the point that one of my friends once asked me if I beat off to my roster.  Well, I kind of did, but not intentionally.  Almost every Sunday during football season, I would go down to my room during the late afternoon games to study and, occasionally, beat off.  The Bengals were playing Oakland, and I was watching even more closely than usual because I had had to insert Bernard Scott as my starting RB that week.

So I’m watching the game on mute, and at the same time watching porn on my computer.  Just as I’m finishing up with the porn (you know what I mean here) I look to my TV, and see Scott break off a 61-yard run.  I essentially came because of my fantasy team.

So what else is there to look forward to in life? Marriage?  I find the prospects of me finding someone that not only I can tolerate, but that can tolerate me, for any amount of time, laughable.  I will either never get married, or get divorced like ten times.  Children?  Maybe if I could raise them from the ages of like 2 through 4.  Any kid outside of that age spectrum is either annoying or an asshole.

And let me note that I’m not the only one who thinks about these things.  I think pretty much everyone in this house does, with the possible exception of Jeff George.  I could see him married in less than five years, with little Jeff George Juniors running around.  He’s probably the only one of us who will make something of himself.  I mean it’s a possibility that Fucktard becomes a doctor, Trashpockets a professor, 3/5’s a lawyer, me a writer.  Maybe P90ForLife finally realizes his goal of starring in gay pornos.  But my money is on the fact that in ten years, we all still live together, and we do nothing but play Call of Duty, fantasy football, and Jeopardy.

So now, as my high school English teacher would suggest, I need to relate this all to my thesis (or in this case, my first title.)  As the more intelligent of you may know, the Mayan calendar predicts the end of world to occur on December 21, 2012.  At the point, I will be six months out of college, probably desperately trying to find a job, followed by not finding a job, followed by contemplating taking a position at the local Burger King*.  So if the world ends then I wouldn’t really care.  In fact, I’m hoping for it.  Johnny Bench called.

*Excuse me.  BK Lounge.

Monday Evening Link Dump

If you like it, then you should’ve put a link on it:

• I’m still reeling from Conan’s departure from late night, so I’d figure we’d start with a couple CoCo-related tidbits.  First, it seems apparent that the hatred between NBC president Jeff Zucker and ConeBone goes back to their days at Harvard.  Also, while I am eagerly awaiting Conan’s new show (on whatever channel will have him), maybe he should take this advice for the time being and write for the Internet.  And if he needs any lessons on how to write extremely mediocre blog posts, I’d be willing to help him.
• The Snuggie and the Pillowig apparently aren’t enough for comfort-clothing crowd.  The latest one?  PajamaJeans — jeans so comfortable that you’ll want to wear them to bed!
• Deadspin is doing a hilarious series entitled “Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure,” and this one entails a guy getting cock-blocked by Justin Long.  I know he’s a movie star, but really?  Justin Long?
• What has happened to Harrison Ford?  He’s gone from complete badass to starring in Extraordinary Measures, which as Fucktard correctly pointed out, looks like a Lifetime movie.  But apparently he works around the clock:

• The guys at Holy Taco bring us 25 Clever Exam Answers.
• One of our female friends recently questioned why guys “waste” so much time playing video games.  I thought it was a somewhat legitimate query — until I heard a convo between two girls on the way to class today.  One of the ladies was going on about how she had been up until 3 AM designing rings on some website.  That’s the kind of shit girls do.  Video games are without a doubt a better use of time.  Anyway, this is all just a segue to a list of observations about Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.  (For the record, #8 pretty much describes me.)
• P90ForLife and I were searching for Chinese food a couple months back, and stumbled upon a website for an establishment called China Dynasty.  Caution: this website contains the best advertising jingle in the history of the world.  It will be stuck in your head for days.  Proceed at your own risk.
• Finally, a hat tip to friend of the blog Mo Egger for bringing us this amazing clip.  (Usually, when I say “friend of the blog,” I mean “person whose blog I read.”  But Mo has actually linked to us a couple of times, even stirring up the massive debate on the Paul Daugherty post.  Anyway, thank you Mo.)

Our Basketball Team is Better Than Yours

Because we have Mark Titus.  And some guy named Evan Turner.  But mostly because of Mark Titus — or should I say Mr. Rainmaker.

If It Weren’t For “The Office,” I Would Boycott NBC

Update: We found the phone number of Jeff Zucker, president of NBC, and the man behind all this bullshit.  Fucktard asked to speak with him, but his secretary would only allow Fucktard to leave a message, which was something like: “Drop Jay Leno on his chin and leave Conan alone.”  Here’s the digits if you want to call: 212-664-2830.  Long live CoCo.

For some reason, late-night talk shows just aren’t as big of a hit with people my age as they are with the generations before me.  I guess I understand it — a long, protracted, often-seemingly forced monologue with tired topical jokes, plus celebrity interviews that go nowhere is sometimes the recipe for these shows nowadays.  But for some reason, I’ve always been drawn to them.  Part of it is just pure respect — I’m amazed that these guys put together an hour-long show, five days a week, year after year after year.

Anyway, I’ve been watching this whole “Late Night Wars” thing at NBC with great anticipation.  If you haven’t been following it (because you have a life), here’s the gist: Jay Leno’s prime-time show was a catastrophic failure, so they want to give him a thirty-minute show at 11:35 (the usual Tonight Show time-slot).  Consequently, Conan and Tonight would be moved to 12:05, and Jimmy Fallon’s Late Night would be moved to 1:05 (Carson Daly’s show would be canceled, and he would resume living under the bridge on I-104 in East LA).

Well, today, Conan basically said “Fuck that” and quit.  He believes it would tarnish the Tonight Show tradition to move its time-slot, and he doesn’t want any part of that.  I completely agree with his decision, and it’s nice to see that someone in this whole situation has morals (unlike Jay Leno and the executives at NBC, which I’ll get to later).  If you’ve read this blog for some time, you know I basically have a huge man-crush on Conan.  He’s basically lived my dream life: writing for SNL, writing for The Simpsons, hosting his own show, getting stalked by a deranged priest.  The first time I ever saw his show (which, oddly enough, was not during the middle of the night on NBC, but rather during an afternoon re-broadcast on their sister station, CNBC), I was sure I had discovered the funniest man alive.  Today, while I’m not sure he’s even the best talk-show host out there*, I have a hard time believing anyone could watch him and not deem him hilarious and tremendously talented.

*Maybe it’s simply the fact that I saw him live, but I honestly believe there is no one more funny right now than Craig Ferguson.  He doesn’t do the boring old monologues that everyone else does — instead, he tells stories with jokes mixed in.  He actually has real conversations with his guests, rather than just awkwardly promoting their movies or shows.  And whether it is or not, everything he does seems like it’s off-the-cuff.  He gives the impression that he was just given a talk show and told to entertain — it doesn’t seem prepared and dull like the others sometimes do. Just my opinion, but I think he’s changing the face of late-night talk shows.

Now, I think the blame for this whole thing falls on the shoulders of two people.  First and foremost, the NBC executives.  Their decision to put The Jay Leno Show at 10:00 was a colossal mistake.  Talk-shows cannot compete with scripted dramas, which is what the other networks show at that time.  Because of this, his show got terrible ratings, and offered no lead-in to Conan’s Tonight, which in turn also received terrible ratings.  If Jeff Zucker, President of NBC, is not fired within the year, then the people at that network are dumber than I thought.

The second person who deserves blame is Jay Leno himself.  Now, here’s a disclaimer: I hate Jay Leno.  He is the most unfunny person I have ever seen.  And really, the only people I know that like him are my grandparents.  I guess his comedy is just for an older generation.  But I’ll try to look at this objectively.  First, a history lesson: most of you are too young to remember (hell, I’m too young to remember), but Leno should’ve never even been the Tonight Show host.  When Johnny Carson, the Grand Poobah of All Late-Night Talk Shows, retired, he wanted David Letterman as his replacement (at that time, Letterman was hosting Late Night — the show that was passed to Conan and then Fallon).  For reasons that are still unclear to me, Leno was instead chosen, and Letterman went to CBS.

Fast forward to 2004.  Conan was getting very lucrative offers from other networks who were interested in starting late-night franchises.  His dream, though, was to host Tonight. So a deal was worked out: Leno would retire in 2009, and Conan would take over.  Now, at that point, if Leno had said, “I’m not giving up this show.  I have great ratings, I’m still relatively young, and I shouldn’t have to leave,”  I would’ve been fine with it.  Conan was the underling — if Jay didn’t want to budge, Conan could’ve left then.  But Jay relented, and when 2009 rolled around, he decided he still wanted a show, and got one at 10:00.

Leno made a joke recently that NBC stood for “Never Believe your Contract,” in reference to what he believed is unfair treatment by the executives.  Well, how about you honor your contract, Jay?  No one forced you out of the Tonight Show — you could’ve stayed, and Conan would have had to go.  But you made your bed — lie in it.  By accepting the move back to 11:35, he is, for all intents and purposes, forcing Conan out after only six months on the job.  If Leno had any principle whatsoever, he should go to another network if he really still wants a show.  But instead, he’s being a baby and whining until he got what he wanted.

So Conan is leaving.  He’ll probably go to Fox and start a show there (some have even suggested that take over for the recently-resigned Simon Cowell on American Idol). I can’t really picture him on any network other than NBC.  This whole situation is just a mess, and it’s sad, really.  I’ve lost a lot of respect for Leno — not that I had much to begin with.  I guess it can all be summed up by what Craig Ferguson said last night: “At the end of the day, it’s a bunch of middle-aged white guys arguing about who will get X-million dollars — who gives a shit?”