That’s the prospective name of the game show, though I haven’t the slightest idea how that might apply to smart people. If it means they have a job that requires strong intellectual capacities, then I’m already out of the running. If it just means that they’re making something up as they go along, maybe it’s worth sending in my home tape and application after all. If nothing else, I got a few laughs out of it.
I’m afraid I can’t put the tape in here verbatim for two reasons. For one thing, I made the whole thing up as I went along. I had written a few things down beforehand, but those were just basic guidelines—the rest was relatively spontaneous. (I only regret that I didn’t mention that it was 40 degrees and windy outside, which was why Brent and I used pictures of William Mitchell and one of the apartment buildings instead of going on site.) The other reason is that it’s almost five minutes long and I don’t want to keep playing and rewinding the tape just to get every single word right. If you don’t like it, hunt down the WB people and get them to turn it over. That’ll probably give me some laughs, too. Especially when you tell me about getting tossed into a cell with a large man named Bubba who thought you were “real cute.”
Oh yes, one other thing worthy of mention. Dunno if they’ll catch it or not, but I pulled some wording directly from that flyer they sent me. Between explaining the cost of school, living with the parents, etc. and giving them a list of my best traits that should make me eligible, I included these words: “…and that’s why I need you. Here’s why I think you want me…” It was something to that effect, anyway, but those were the two words they used: “If you are more likely to be featured on Jeopardy rather than The Bachelor then we want you and you need us.” I know it’s pretty subtle, but it was worth a shot, right?
Anyway, after shooting that footage—and a big shout-out to my older brother Brent for coming home and doing the camera work—it was time to fill out the application form. It had about two pages of eligibility requirements and releases (i.e., legal mumbo-jumbo), but the other eight pages were way too much fun for my own good. Okay, that’s a lie—they were a big pain in the ass, but there were a couple fun questions in there.
“What is your most embarrassing moment?”
In a small classroom with the tables in a circle, I leaned back in my chair, started dozing off, then drooled on my shirt. I spent the next half hour trying to make the spot go away before class ended.
— I’m not sure if that was my most embarrassing moment, but it was close. (I’ll share another good story later on.) For some reason, whenever I hit the 3:00-4:00 hour during school, I get really warm. If I’m tired, it’s really hard to stay awake. Thus, if I cross my arms and lean back, I start doing the tired head bob. In this case, there was no bob, just a spot of drool that slipped out of my mouth and landed on my chest. Thankfully, I was using a laptop in class, so I could hide behind that to a certain extent, but hunching over and rubbing won’t do any good if you have to stand up in front of everyone when class is done and it’s time to leave.
“What are your intellectual stregnths?”
Yes, that’s how the questionnaire spelled “strengths.” So what did I do? I circled it and wrote “Finding typos.” If they take offense… tough shit. Not my fault for being observant.
Speaking of which, while I was reading through the legal mumbo-jumbo, there was one particular clause where I stopped and decided to call Megan out in California. For starters, I wanted to know when I was committing to the project. The contract says the date is “subject to change in Producer’s sole discretion,” but I don’t feel comfortable leaving it saying ________________, 200__. I can just imagine someone giving me a call in April of 2007 asking why the hell aren’t I at the studio in California, insisting that I broke the contract and that I better get my other lawyer friends ready to defend me in court. So I called and Megan told me that it was currently set for January, 2005 (and that it’d be more like two weeks instead of four, so I made that change as well).
Then there was clause 6. Or lack thereof. It jumped from 5 to 7. She figured it was a typo or that the WB had something in the contract that had been taken out or something, so she called her boss, then called me back to say it was an accident, no big deal. The fact that she didn’t know the answer to the question leads me to several potential conclusions:
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1) She’s only working with a couple people on this project. I dunno whether that would mean there’s only a few of us 21-32 year old single guys left or that there are a lot of underlings to work through before getting to the producers.
2) There are a lot of people who are running behind schedule. Megan asked me to get the tape and application form in the mail early this week (oops…), so if I was the first to call, that means they’re all slower than me.
3) No one else has been reading the contract very carefully and they’re only skimming the mumbo-jumbo before signing it.
Since she didn’t already know that there was no clause 6, that means I was the first one to bring the mistake to her attention. That might give me some props in the eyes of the people running the project or they might think I’m overstepping some invisible boundary by questioning their ability to write a proper contract… who knows? All I know is that it feels like a moral victory. Plus it shows off some of my intellectual stregnths.
