Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Price Is Right. Gloriously, Magically Right.
Generally speaking I am not a fan of television game shows, unless the show in question is The Price Is Right, in which case I’m a total whore. I’ve been like that since my childhood, when I used to scramble up the hill to our next-door neighbor’s house to watch it, drink Frescas, chomp some Juicy Fruit gum, and conduct deep discussions as only a four year-old could regarding the madness of someone’s gross underestimation of the retail value of fabric softener. My Price Is Right viewing was disastrously curbed once that whole education nonsense started, but in my heart I remained a loyal TPIR gal through and through.

Once I got to college I met two like-minded individuals, and we were forever bonded by our love of this spectacular game show.
If we’d had our way, we would have watched TPIR every single day of our collegiate lives. Unfortunately our game show of choice aired at 10am and, as any dedicated scholar can tell you, that is prime college class time. A person can get their classes out of the way without being required to wake up too early or be in class late enough to interfere with beer-drinking. But at Belmont, no classes were scheduled for 10am on Wednesdays because that was the time appropriated for chapel. Luckily for me and my pals, I made the acquaintance of a fella who knew the person who took roll at chapel. As I was delighted to learn, roll was only taken on certain days. The unwashed masses didn’t know when these roll-taking days took place, but, because I was not above being flirtatious with certain calculus classmates, I had the chapel attendance record hookup. So every Wednesday morning shortly before 10, my two compadres and I would hoof it to the designated building and I would scour the area for my informant who would indicate with a thumbs-up or thumbs-down whether or not attendance at chapel would be recorded. On the days that roll wasn’t being taken, my girlfriends and I would haul ass back to the dorm room in preparation of an hour of game show bliss. We’d make a quick stop at the vending machine, grab some Combos, Little Debbies, and Dr. Peppers, and then sit in reverence in front of the television to watch The! Price! Is! Right!

We would arrange our snacks and beverages in a semi-circle around us, sit cross-legged on the floor, and stare at the television with love and adoration. We would hear Rod Roddy’s “Come On Down!” and shout along, spraying pretzel crumbs around the room. We’d cheer when Plinko! came on, and groan when that stupid mountain climber in the lederhosen made an appearance. But the culmination of all these pricing games was the Showcase Showdown. It is the Holy Grail of game shows, and we were devoted disciples.

If you watch enough TPIR, you’ll notice that there’s usually one clunker tossed into the showcase mix. They’ll have trips, furniture, cars, or boats, and then they’ll slip in something like a dune buggy or a hanglider. After seeing all the showcase had to offer, the contestant could either bid or pass, but invariably they’d pass the showcase to the other contestant in order to unload whatever piece of crap the TPIR producers were trying to palm off on them. The three of us always dreamed of a more instantaneous reaction, though. We wanted to see someone start shouting “Pass! Pass on the dune buggy, Bob” as soon as the lame prize was unveiled.

Rod Roddy: Your showcase begins with… a trip to London, England!

Contestant: Oooh, I’ve always wanted to go there!

Rod Roddy: To make traveling a breeze, here’s a brand new set of… Samsonite luggage!


Contestant: Well, I do need some new luggage, that’s for sure.


Rod Roddy: After you return from your trip around the world, unwind in your… very own hot tub!

Contestant: Fantastic! The wife and I have been talking about getting one of those!

Rod Roddy: After you’re all rested, take a spin on your brand new… hovercraft!

Contestant: …


Rod Roddy: ...

Contestant: Pass!


Rod Roddy: Enjoy riding over the waves as you—


Contestant: Pass! Pass on the hovercraft, Bob.


Rod Roddy: …can be used on both land and—


Contestant: Pass!


Eventually we began to live vicariously through our fantasy TPIR contestants, and every time they’d whip out an old-fashioned popcorn wagon or a player piano we’d shriek “Pass! Pass on the crappy prize, Bob!” between bites of Little Debbie snack cakes. Of course it didn’t stop there. At meal time in the cafeteria it was, “Pass on the chicken a la king, Bob,” and when figuring out next semester’s schedules it would be “Pass on the 7am Botany, Bob.”

Just a couple weeks ago I was doing some grocery shopping. As I picked up some produce to examine it more closely, I got a whiff of something bad and a couple gnats flew out from inside the container.

“Hoo boy, pass on the blackberries, Bob.”

In a beautiful example of the power of TPIR to unify total strangers, an elderly gentleman was standing nearby and heard me. He gave me a look of confused understanding, as though he knew exactly what I meant but couldn’t figure out how.

I’ve got twenty bucks that says he’d pass on the hovercraft, too.


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