I’ve always wanted to be on a game show…but never realized that my dreams had already come true. I’ve been on one for the last four years and never even knew it.
I’ve been living life as a contestant on one of the most riveting hidden-camera competitions to date. It’s not for the faint of heart and over the years it’s brought numerous contestants to their knees.
No, it’s not Survivor. It’s not Hell’s Kitchen or The Amazing Race, it’s…
‘What the Fuck is That, Please Tell Me it’s Chocolate!’
As a full-time stay-at-home dad, I keep an eyes on my kids, like, 98% of the time. I have to. If I don’t, innocent bystanders get their hair pulled out in clumps, the neighbor kid gets put down with a wiffle-ball bat or my kids give my hallways a Crayola hieroglyphic make-over.
However, with that 98% attentiveness, leaves that teeny-tiny 2% when I just can’t be front and center.
These are the occasions where I’m doubled over in abdominal pain and have to use the bathroom or when I’m squinting to focus in on the cleaning instruction tags of my wife’s shirts that say ‘cancel your afternoon plans, hand wash and lay flat to dry’ OR the hours spent being bounced back and forth between representatives in five countries as I try and pay a simple bill to the company right down the street.
As much as I want to get a shower (with no one screaming from the other room like they turned the vacuum on their genitals) and doll myself up to appear on a prime-time network game show, I only have a few seconds to sadly gaze into the mirror and stare at a 37-year old Quaker Oats-tube lookin’ Wilford Brimley.
And it’s not just myself that scares me, it’s something in an ‘earth tone’ smeared into the glass.
I GUESS CHOCOLATE.
As I move through the house, I discover the culprit, which momentarily puts me at ease. She’s not running naked down the street and no one has called the police… yet.
I’m giving my 3-year old the benefit of the doubt, thinking it’s only common sense that this kid didn’t eat lincoln logs for a snack while I got sucked into the ‘bill matrix’ on the phone.
The audience at home cringes.
It’s like playing Russian Roulette….what happens if I put a high-caliber round of ass-dirt into my mouth on national TV?
We go to a commercial.
Everyone is on the edge of their seats as we come back, waiting to see if my new nickname is ‘turd mouth’.
But just when you think you’ve won, they suck you into the final round…
And every game show has it’s ups and downs.
The DOWN is, literally, traveling south on the leg of my kid, no taste-test needed.
I’m a loser. I didn’t collect a cash-prize, trip to Hawaii or a year-supply of Huggies. And just because luck was on my side this once, it happened on tile. That was my consolation prize.
I’m not sure that I’m cut out for game-show life.
I think I’m better suited to sit on the sofa, eating pretzels that AREN’T covered in chocolate.