There are many questions in life that must go unanswered—who is God, why am I here, where is that pistachio I dropped in my room yesterday? Such is the mystery that is our existence on the human coil. There is, however, one question whose answer is obvious.

Who wants to be a millionaire? Me. Simple as that.

As soon as that show came on the air, I knew it was tailored for me. I mean, come on—creepy music, goofy lights, Regis Philbin? If I were ever to create a game show, you know that’s exactly how mine would come out, except in my show, all the lights would be run by freakishly smart monkeys.

And I could do it, too—I could go all the way. I’ve gotten as far as the $500,000 question before losing it all, and only because the question was something impossible like "What color underpants did Regis wear the day that Kathie Lee disclosed she was putting Cody and Cassidy to work in the sweatshop?"

I’ve always wanted to be on a game show, ever since I was little. My goal in life, at least before "Who Wants to be a Millionaire," was to be on "The Price is Right," specifically, so I could play Plinko. I wouldn’t care what prize I won—a lifetime supply of flesh-eating booger nodules—as long as I got to play Plinko, which is, for those of you who don’t squander away your youth watching "The Price is Right," a game in which you put a shiny disk into a slot and it bounces happily down to the bottom, where something happens, maybe one of Barker’s Beauties has to take off her top or something, the actual point of it is lost on me. It’s the bouncing disk that makes me happy. It’s better than Prozac.

But I’ve discarded that dream now and turned all my efforts (read: wishing very, very hard) toward getting on to "Millionaire." I have had my phone friends picked out since the show debuted in August, and am working day and night to improve my already vast pool of totally useless knowledge. (Richard Henry Lee’s birthday? January 20.)

Now, of course I realize that things will not go as smoothly as I have practiced them in my room at home (hey, you think those contestants can come up with that witty banter on the spot?) I mean, the atmosphere is not exactly conducive to relaxation. The music alone is enough to cause someone to have a heart attack, and the lights could confuse anyone into running out into oncoming traffic. Chances are, I’ll get up there and make a gigantic ass of myself.

Regis: What is the capital of Ohio.

Me: Huh huh huh. I like your tie.

Regis: Thank you. It’s Pierre Cardin.

Me: Huh huh huh.

Regis: The capital of Ohio?

Me: Saigon.

Regis: Is that your final answer?

Me: Yes.

Regis: You are a moron.

None of that matters, though, in the long run. All that matters is that in twenty years I can tell my children how I appeared on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" and shook hands with Regis Philbin. And I’ll always have my dream of appearing on "The Price is Right" to fall back on. Even though it means I will probably have to kiss Bob Barker.