Lately I’ve been watching all of the daily reruns of the old game show “Deal or No Deal,” which premiered on NBC back in 2005 and starred Howie Mandel as the host (not to be confused with the game show “Let’s Make a Deal,” which premiered right about the time Columbus discovered America and was hosted by Monty Hall).
For those of you who aren’t familiar with Deal or No Deal, here is a brief summary: The show features 26 gorgeous female models, each one carrying a numbered briefcase that contains a cash amount (anywhere from $.01 to $1,000,000 dollars). Then the contestant, by eliminating all of the other cases one by one, attempts to figure out which case holds the million dollars, to win that amount. But at any time throughout the game, the contestant can opt to quit trying to find the million-dollar case and accept a much lower cash offer from the show's resident villain, The Banker, instead.
The game is more complicated than I just described it, but that’s the gist of it anyway.
I’m realizing now that my behavior hasn’t changed much at all since I first watched the show over 20 years ago. I’m still not thrilled about seeing 26 shapely models with perfect hair, perfect makeup and gleaming white smiles every morning while I’m sitting here in my holey sweatpants with my thinning hair in a sloppy bun, my partial denture lying on a coaster on the end table, and dark circles under my eyes that make me look as if I’m a descendent of Rocket Raccoon from Guardians of the Galaxy.
I also still shout in frustration at the contestants, “Pick case number (enter any number from 1-26), you fool!”
I clearly remember, back when the program first aired, how enthralled my husband and I were to see a game show that was so elaborate, so unique…and so visually captivating with its wall-to-wall sea of cleavage. Millions of other people also must have been as equally enthralled because Deal of No Deal instantly became a huge success. I suspect, however, it may have been (as it was in my late husband’s case) due more to the models than a love of the game itself.
Still, for whichever reason, the show grew so popular, NBC decided to take advantage of it and began to air it three nights per week…Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Also, to further entice viewers, they added an opportunity for the people at home to select one of six briefcases in a special Lucky Case Game each night and compete to win $10,000. Viewers were instructed to enter their case-number guess via a text message or email prior to the end of the show. All of the correct answers then were grouped together and a lucky home-viewer was selected at random to win the prize
So every night the show aired, both my husband and I faithfully submitted our guesses.
“Which briefcase do you think is holding the $10,000 tonight?” I’d ask him.
“Number four.”
“My gut is telling me it’s in number three,” I’d say and then enter each of our numbers.
But one Wednesday night as we faithfully prepared to enter yet again, I suddenly experienced an overwhelming feeling the $10,000 was in case number one. It was like a psychic message from above or maybe divine intervention. In fact, the feeling was so strong, when my husband told me to submit his entry for case number five, I entered number one for both of us.
At about 8:45 each night, the show would announce that the contest was over and no more entries would be accepted. Then the winning briefcase number would be revealed. The name of the winner, however, never was announced until the very end of the show.
“You know,” I said to my husband that night as we sat waiting to hear the briefcase number, “when you enter the contest, they ask you for only your name and phone number. Yet when they announce the winner, they always say what city and state they are from. How do they know that?”
“They probably call the winner and get the information during the commercial break just before they announce that person’s name on the air,” he said.
Howie Mandel’s voice interrupted our discussion. “And tonight’s winning case is number one!”
“Yessssss!” I squealed, clapping my hands. “Now I can confess! I put both of our entries on number one tonight!”
“You mean one of us actually could win the $10,000?” My husband’s eyebrows rose.
“Well, we’ll know for sure any minute now,” I said, “especially if our phone rings during this commercial.”
As if on cue, the phone rang at that precise moment. My husband and I gasped in unison and froze, staring wide-eyed at each other. Finally, I jumped up and dashed to the phone.
“Good evening. May I please speak to Sally Breslin?” a professional-sounding male voice asked.
“Speaking!” I managed to choke out before I suffered from what I was certain was an impending heart attack.
By then, my husband was up from his chair, his eyes riveted on me.
“I’m calling from Chase Manhattan Bank with a special credit-card offer for you!” the man said.
Never have I wanted to commit murder more than I wanted to commit it at that moment.
“It’s nearly nine o’clock at night!” I shouted at him. “Don’t you guys ever sleep?” I slammed the phone and then took a deep breath in an effort to calm my racing heart, which still was somewhere up around my tonsils.
My husband, his mouth forming a tight line, said, “Um, I think I can assume that wasn’t the TV show calling?”
Even though we got over the excitement of that
brief feeling of being winners, we never got over the lingering feeling of
being losers. Still, gluttons for punishment that we were, we continued to play
the at-home briefcase game and even guessed the correct number twice. But we
never won a thing.
My feelings of resentment toward the show, however, were eased one night when the producers decided to replace the 26 sexy female models with 26 muscular, bare-chested, hunky firefighters…for one episode.
And that possibly might be the reason why I’m currently watching all of the reruns…
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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
