Your RDA of Irony

Slot Machinations

Yesterday I found myself in a casino.  No, I did not play any of the tables.  I had to save my luck for the auditions of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”  After all, I was one of some 800 people vying to stand next to Meredith and guess either the capital of France (for $1,000) or the square root of Kanye West’s social security number (for $500,000).  In four weeks I will know whether or not I have a prayer, and then so will you. 

While waiting in line for the audition,  I did notice the desperate variety in the slot machines.  Apparently, the prospect of losing one quarter in the hope of winning fifty is not incentive enough.  Today’s slots need themes!  I saw one for “My Magic Pony”.  That should appeal to all the five-year-old girls at the casino.  Maybe it was intended to lure their grandparents–“Darling, look where I lost your college fund!”  But I was especially impressed with “The Sex in the City” slot machine.  Perhaps I should have invested a dollar to see how the game worked.  Obviously, the orgasms and tribulations of those four Manhattan women could not be scored by six oranges in a row.  No, I imagine the scoring would be…

Three Cosmopolitans in a row–$5.

Four Kim Cattrall nude scenes–$20

Five non-abusive heterosexual males in New York–$100

Six Manolo Blahnik shoes–enough to pay for one pair.

How could I resist?  The thought of losing a dollar to Sheldon Adelson….

 And let’s not forget the historic significance of this day (and imagine John Calvin on “Sex in the City”; well, he’d be more fun than John Knox):



  1. wayne rhodes says:

    Didn’t know that show was still on!!! Hope you make it.

    • Eugene Finerman says:

      Thank you, Wayne. I did pass the first test–thirty questions in ten minutes–but will I survive the dissection of the producers? I will receive a postcard in two weeks, letting me if I have been rejected or if I have a precarious hope in the contestant pool.

  2. Joan Stewart Smith says:

    Good luck, Eugene! You’d be awesome on that show! (I’m referring to “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” – not “Sex in the City”!)

    • Eugene Finerman says:

      Thank you Joan.

      But you mean I wouldn’t be awesome on “Sex and the City”? Actually, I am hoping to be cast in “Game of Thrones”. For the sake of medieval accuracy, the show needs a Jew to be persecuted.


  3. Bob Kincaid says:

    Here’s hoping for a happy postcard, Eugene! Not to be a wet blanket, but if you blew through those questions too easily, you might be marked as surely as if you’d been caught counting cards at the blackjack table.

    Got your lifelines and call-friend selections all set? Knowing you, that would be tough. Surprised other hopefuls weren’t trying to sign you up.

    • Eugene Finerman says:

      Thanks Bob,

      Of the 200 people who took the test with me, about two dozen passed. So I don’t think my erudition was glaringly conspicuous.

      And the rules of the show have changed: the phone-a-friend lifeline has been eliminated. The official excuse was that the phone-friends might have been using the internet instead of their own innate brilliance. You’d think that the show had been looted by the Vandals or Bain Capital. That never was the case. Now, the only permitted life-lines are to ask the audience and the right to skip two questions.


  4. Brent Hoffmam says:

    Gene: I’m betting my Blahnik combat boots that you’ll make the cut. –Brent

    • Eugene Finerman says:


      I may take that bet.

      Even if I survive the initial purge, I still may flounder in the contestant pool. Not all are picked. On Jeopardy, only half of the “finalists” become contestants; and Jeopardy has a longer broadcast season.


  5. Megan says:

    Good luck Eugene! I noticed on the Bored that more MAWGs are getting video auditions this year. A hopeful sign? Its been a long time since someone saw the million dollar question. Maybe this year they’re going to let in a few ringers.

    • Eugene Finerman says:

      Thanks Megan.

      I am not sure that I can still claim to be a Middle Aged White Guy. Mel Gibson and Pat Buchanan begrudge me “the White” and–at the age of 60– I probably am not middle-aged anymore.


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