Partying with Alex Trebek

I wrote this short story in 2004. It's from the perspective of a fictionalized me--that is, "me" if I was still a smartass who played Super Nintendo but I was more of a confident frat dude than a daydreaming misfit.

It can be a struggle for know-it-all's to make friends, and even an educated mind can be hit by midlife crisis, so I thought it'd be fun to insert the host of Jeopardy! into the oftentimes debachued campus of UW-Oshkosh.  

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I have partied with game show host Alex Trebek. I first met him a few months ago at a basement kegger here in Oshkosh. First impressions? Well, it’s a bit like seeing a really attractive girl with full, pursed lips. But once she smiles, she reveals these horrifying, British bumpkin teeth. And when she introduces herself to you, her voice sounds like a shit-faced Fran Drescher. Put simpler, the initial thrill of meeting a celebrity wears off when you see the man dance to the song “Dancing Queen” when there is not a soul within a ten-foot radius of him. Then the thrill plummets into silent sympathy—viewed from a comfortable distance, of course.

“Alex Trebek” is one of those names you type into your wireless phone book out of guilt because he asked for yours first. Then, once you retire for the night, you erase it right before passing out.

What follows is a series of journal entries documenting my experiences with Trebek. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent. For instance, one of my buddies dabbles in bud-dealing and he specifically asked me not to use his real name in this story. Fair enough, “K-Dog.” Protecting Trebek’s name, however, is not a concern of mine. Celebrity dishing sells these days, and an aspiring writer like me must always look for ways to get his foot in the door. Oh, and should Trebek one day read this and take exception to some of the facts printed in the following article, should he decide to take legal action for what he may deem “defamation of character,” I vow to track him down and give him a titty-twister so brutal it will cause him heart palpitations.

9/5/05

This afternoon, while we were puffing at my buddy Zimmy’s place, Zimmy offered Trebek a snack. He had pretzels, Pringles and trail mix to choose from. Trebek thought about it for a while (he was a little low on those Ivy League brain cells at this point) and, after much delay, he picked the Pringles. Zimmy kind of giggled and—totally kidding—he asked Trebek if that was his “final answer.” I started to laugh, but Trebek slammed his fist on the coffee table, pointed a fidgety finger at Zimmy, and shouted, “Dag-nabbit, you’re quoting Regis Philban! Don’t you confuse ME with that chattering junior college dropout!” He was really pissed. Zimmy chortled uneasily, then, following a pause that simply wouldn’t end, he swallowed his pride and apologized.

Following that unpleasant episode, everything was cool for a while. We continued watching The Big Lebowski and every chuckle distanced us from the hostility. Everything was cool until the scene with Tara Reid lounging poolside in a bikini. Trebek made some meat-head comment like, “Goodness gracious, she’s almost as hot as your sister, Zimmy.” This is a well-known sore subject for Zimmy; you could almost see his simmering veins pop through his skin. (But in fairness to Trebek, little Christie has indeed matured into a self-assured, supple-bodied vixen.)

A couple minutes later, Trebek busted out his cell phone and said he was going to call up Bob Barker to see if he’s in town. (As if he’s actually hip enough to hang out with Bob Barker. My ass, Trebek.) So Zimmy says to him, brimming with sadism, “Phonin’ a friend, eh? How many lifelines does that leave you with, Rege—er, Trebek?” Like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, Trebek blew a frickin’ gasket. He fumbled around in his pockets, then pulled out this toenail clipper with a pointed nail-filer attachment and lunged at Zimmy, shouting his head off. I wasn’t sure if he intended to stab Zimmy, or merely give him a complimentary manicure, but I couldn’t chance the latter. I put the crazy geek in a full-nelson before he could do any real damage. Situation neutralized.

9/10/05

Trebek showed up at our party tonight. Long before the advent of the Game Show Network, I think he really lost touch with reality. For instance, every time he inquires about something, he demands that you answer in the form of a question. Shortly after he spotted me standing beside the keg, he said to me, “This is the amount of money you’re charging for a cup of beer.” I laughed out of politeness (plus I was pretty tipsy), then told him, “Five dollars.” His brow scrunched in the shape of two dusty caterpillars and he stared a hole through me. Then he cleared his throat, in a very deliberate, impatient fashion. “What is five dollars?” I said. That pompous nut-job—I can’t believe he made me say that. Then, to top it off, he produced a one-hundred dollar bill and asked if I had enough change to break it. And right after he asked me, his gaze sauntered over to this little group of hot ladies, like he was desperate to make eye contact and telepathically communicate the words, “I’m rich, so my excrement smells not revolting, but rather, invigorating.” After I told him no, he just shrugged and handed over a five-dollar bill. I felt like thrashing his stupid mustache with a broken beer bottle and screaming, “Why didn’t you just hand me the five-spot right away, you conceited prick?!”

Later on, I was baffled to see him conversing with a decent-looking female. (This is a girl that loses the ability to recite the alphabet once she’s had a few drinks, but that’s beside the point.) Amazingly, Trebek worked up the stones to ask for her digits, but being a pretentious sap, here’s how he worded it: “THIS is the phone number you’re going to give to the handsome gentleman standing before you.” The girl had no clue what the hell he was talking about. She shot him a look like she suspected he had just released a diabolical fart and asked him, “What?” Undaunted, Trebek replied, “This is the phone number you’re going to give to the handsome gentleman standing before you.” “Huh?” “This is the phone number you’re going to give to the handsome gentleman standing before you...” I shit you not, this routine went on for another two minutes until the girl caught sight of something shiny and wandered off. After she left, Trebek said to me, defeated and commiserating, “Darn, I thought that was going to lead to some you-know-what.” He ceases to amaze me.

9/12/05

Playing Mortal Kombat II this afternoon, I notched 12 consecutive flawless victories versus Trebek, each one punctuated by a fatality. Toward the end of our session, I detected tears welling in his eyes. Suppressing laughter, I asked if he was crying. Trebek swallowed hard, shook his head vehemently, and insisted he was merely having an allergic reaction to the pepper that garnished the pizza we had eaten. (For the record, we had eaten that pizza over three hours ago.) He then screamed at the TV screen: “How does one block a bolt of lightning simply by shielding his face with his hands?! Good Heavens, it just isn’t feasible!”

By the end of our session, Trebek looked about as chipper as Kurt Cobain in Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged performance. It was the best!

9/14/05

While I was studying for my Spanish quiz, guess who showed up uninvited, for the sheer sake of jabbering my ear off. Trebek started bragging about how he nailed Cybill Shepherd the week she was on Celebrity Jeopardy. Whatever. He so never nailed Cybill Shepherd. He’s so pathetically desperate for praise. Next time he starts bragging compulsively, I’m just going to toss him a dog biscuit and rub his belly or something. Maybe that’ll shut him up.

His visit wasn’t a total waste, though. He told me the story of the time he hosted with a wicked case of gut rot back in 1994. While a contestant was answering a question during Double Jeopardy, Trebek let one slip. If you listen very closely, the boom mic detects the noise. And then, like thirty seconds later, when he cues the commercial break, his mustache is twitching uncontrollably and his facial expression resembles that of a man who has just been told his elderly grandmother may not live through the night. He showed me the tape and everything. Trebek’s not so bad when he’s willing to humiliate himself.

9/16/05

Tonight at my buddy K-Dog’s party, Trebek wouldn’t stop complaining about how much he hates the Final Jeopardy music. He said it’s like being a DJ that’s forced to play the exact same hit song every half-hour, only the song stays in heavy rotation for a mirthless eternity.

At the time, this hippie girl clad in a Phish shirt—I think her name was Angelica—was in earshot. She sympathized, since she too was not a fan of the final Jeopardy music. Always a stray puppy desperate for petting, Trebek quickly warmed up to her. “You know, I keep begging the producers to play snippets of Phish songs in place of that boring old theme music. Those fun-loving longhairs really get my booty boogying.” (The funny thing is he kind of shuddered with dread while saying those last two words, “booty boogying,” as if the outdated slang somehow raped the English language.)

My buddy K-Dog was there with me, and he totally called Trebek out on his Phish knowledge. K-Dog was like, “Trebeck, you poseur. I’ll bet you can’t name one single Phish song.” Trebek muttered unintelligibly for a second, and when that Angelica girl started snickering, he pulled out his toenail clipper with a pointed nail-filer attachment. To quickly summarize: No one got hurt, Trebek crashed alone in the bathtub while it was still recognized as a “time-saver toilet” to keep the bathroom line moving, and K-Dog totally got laid.

9/17/05

K-Dog was showing us this awesome hip-hop DVD that depicted these free-styling emcees that just made up their rhymes on the spot. A stone-cold stickler for stuff like the Starland Vocal Band, Trebek was unimpressed. He said, “Sure, these minority ruffians know their crude street lingo, but where’s the alliteration and iambic pentameter? Where’s the elegant vernacular?” K-Dog wasn’t hearing it. He said, “Listen, brainiac, if you’ve got a hard-on for ‘illiterazation’ and ‘I-am-dick pentagon,’ why don’t YOU try free-styling?”

It should have ended there, but Trebek was determined to prove he could bust a rhyme. He borrowed my buddy Phil’s visor and cocked it to the side. Instead of resembling a youthful hipster, he just looked like a golfer whose head-wear had been blown askew by a stiff wind.

The exact words of his freestyle are burned forever in my memory. “Homies, don’t be a loser like Pat Sajak/ Be a winner like me and say no to crack/ Other drugs are bad as well/ Weed is okay, but...Sajak can go to Hell.”

Then he just kind of trailed off. He lowered his gaze to the floor and somberly removed his visor. I couldn’t look him in the eyes for the rest of the night.

9/23/05

Too drunkto type. Trrebek given atomic wedgie. Womens pantease pulled all the wayover his head. Finish entry inmourning.

9/24/05

Man, I was so wasted last night I blacked out and completely forgot the details of that story. The gist of it is pretty funny, though, isn’t it?

10/01/05

After drinking just one cup of beer, Trebek always acts like he’s really hammered, and he gets overly lovey-dovey with anyone in close proximity. Ever since we first met him, we’ve suspected him of faking his buzz. Tonight we finally put him to the test. We served him twelve cups of non-alcoholic beer, and within two hours, he was belligerently betting people that he could crack a light bulb with his bare hand. He was down $50 to K-Dog when we broke the news about the beer. The room boomed with laughter and his face turned red as a Baywatch leotard. It was a real humiliating, Carrie-type of moment for him—minus the bloody, telekinetic vengeance, of course.

Before fleeing the scene, he angrily tried to crack a light bulb with his bare hand, but was unable to muster up the strength. As he stomped up the basement stairs, K-Dog called out, “Not so fast, Trebek! Now you owe me sixty dollars!”
That was the last time I partied with Alex Trebek. In a way, I kind of miss the mustachioed geek. He was always volunteering to refill your empty beer cup, and had I never met him, I never would’ve guessed that 74-time returning champ Ken Jennings blew most of his prize money on erotic Hummel figurines. Plus, the girls were always grateful any time you rescued them from a conversation with the man.

This is the thing I miss most about Trebek. What is the lovin’ that came my way when the ladies saw his total lack of charm? That is correct.