Wednesday nights have become the highlight of my week. I work all week at a job I generally loathe, and my weekends are more often than not spent in a boring fashion on my couch, catching up on my stories. It’s a fine life, but not a particularly exciting one. But oh ho ho, on Wednesday nights, I am given the weekly opportunity to take part in the glory that is known as trivia night.
My team, the appropriately named Sacred Guardians of the Trivia Temple, is a beast. It’s probably not fair to declare one team at Ye Olde King’s Head “the best,” as there are several teams that regularly compete strongly, but fuck it — the Sacred Guardians are consistently the best. From the antagonistic Greek, to the Hawaiian pop culture queen, to the wanna-be stand-up comedian who doesn’t quite know how to tell a proper story, to the knucklehead lawyer who fancies himself a film and TV critic/blogger, we are a team that regularly places or shows, and often wins.
So this past Wednesday night, we were in a hotly contested battle going into the final round, which we aced for the win. And it was with that win that I realized my shame, that I am part of the problem with our country today. A few weeks ago, one round offered an ostensibly simple question — name the first ten presidents of the United States. I was absolutely worthless to our team. Washington, Jefferson, a couple of Adamseses … I’m out. So while the properly smart ones on our team noodled it out, I drank my beer and talked nonsense with someone else equally not in the know. Last night, meanwhile, the final question was to name the first ten cities the “Real World” was set in, counting the city that was used twice only once. I of course immediately knew that was New York, because everyone knows the tenth anniversary edition went back to the first city — that tenth season was the one what gave us Coral (“I beat bitches up”) and the Miz — which meant we were looking for seasons one through eleven.
And I knew them all, and was particularly able to make the final push for our team, telling people I was certain that Chicago came before Vegas. Chicago was the last answer (it was the eleventh season, while Vegas was twelve), and the Sacred Guardians walked away winners.
With a gun to my head, I cannot name the first ten presidents of this nation of which I am a sworn officer of the court, but I can rattle off the first dozen “Real World” cities with barely a hiccup. And that’s why I’m part of what’s wrong with America. Why are you part of what’s wrong with America?