There is no good segue into this story so I’m just going to go balls out on it: Yesterday, I was on the Price is Right. Not just in the audience, but on the show. 30 something of my housemates and I got on a Green Tortoise bus and went to LA with group reservations for the show.
Before I go on, let me tell you about this bus. Green Tortoise buses are hippie busses with bunk beds instead of luggage compartments and huge mattresses instead of seats. The driver will make liquor stops whenever you want and share his Cherry Garcia with you. The upholstery smells like sweet, sweet hashish and there’s a compartment in the back with a door for sweet, sweet scrumping. We left at about midnight, and I had just returned from Santa Cruz so I had just enough time to tear my room apart looking for my passport, trip over my roommate’s stupid chair, and run out to the bus holding my sweet, sweet shin.
Fast forward many long hours and it’s Casa Zimbabwe in LA. We split into two groups for the two tapings of the day and I (of course) fell into the later group. We walked to Melrose, had breakfast. I had an enormous cup of coffee (black, like the devil made it), and we stolled around aimlessly looking at the funny SoCalians. Back at CBS studios, we entered the golden years of our lives waiting in a five hour processing line. The highlights of the wait were making up dances with my mate Ben, listening to Dustin sing about “pizza rakes,” and screaming the lyrics to “We are the Champions” before the interviewer told us to shut up. So we wait, get nametags, wait, sing, wait, run to Quizno’s, group sex, wait, get interviewed, wait, FINALLY get into the studio.
It’s a lot smaller than I thought. So, we’re sitting there clapping like trained monkeys and this announcer comes out (not Rod, he’s dead), and starts making dirty jokes. Not impressed. We’re sitting there, applauding the applause sign, and they start filming. They call out names. The third name they call is mine. “Capn Nobear” is what he actually called, but if Ms. Nobear had gotten up to contest my spot, I would’ve shot her face off.
The next part is a little hazy. I remember looking back to my group, specifically this guy Keith, for help, and not being able to hear shit while I was bidding. I eventually was the closest when I bid on an exercise bike, and ran up onstage and stood next to the man himself, my personal god, Bob Barker. He asked if I was excited and I think I said “Yes.” I might have slipped and said, “I just wet myself with joy,” but you can’t prove that. Then Bob said, “You’ll be more excited with this!” And all I hear is “A new car!” I remember seeing a truck and a big board with some numbers roll out. I remember guessing the price of the truck. I also remember dancing around like a fucking idiot and hugging Bob Barker.
I’m a little tired and, as always, lazy, so I’ll be brief: I filled out forms, spun the wheel, creamed my jeans, smoked a ton, drank a shitton at a bar where they gave me ice cream, drank on the bus, arrived at home and called my dad. I came away with a Dodge Dakota, an exercise bike, $95, a year’s supply of Alka-Seltzer, and an autographed picture of Bob. And they let me keep the signs with my name on them. You can see me act like a greedy fool on December 24th, around 3pm. I am out of my mind right now. My sister didn’t believe me, either.