Copyright (c) 1992
MC: Welcome back to Hollywood Squares! Once again, I am your host, John Davidson. Now it's time to meet today's contestants! On my left is today's returning champion, Bob Bland. Bob, why don't you tell us a little something about yourself?
Bob: Uh, well I am a grad-you-ate of the Jim Baker mail-order diploma factory. I work in a manure-processing plant as an accountant. And I like racing cockroaches.
MC: Wonderful! Bob has a two day total of $1200! Now, let's meet our challenger, sitting on my right, Miss Buffy Kincaid!
Buffy: Oh, wow. Like, I am a senior in home economics, only I want to go into advertising, or maybe Electrical Engineering, 'cause they make like, tons and tons of money.
MC: Terrific! Now, without further ado, let's get on with the game. Buffy, as the challenger, you get to make the first choice. Who do you want to go with?
Buffy: Um, like, I'll try the IMSA gang, please.
Camera cuts to a shot of Mez, Gabe, Dave and Dana, all crowded into the top left square on the grid.
Dana: This is so COOL! We're on TELEVISION!
Gabe: Hi.
MC: OK, guys, here's your question. If I were to paint my house with infrared paint, what color would I see it as?
Mez: Infrared paint?
MC: Yes. Do you guys need to talk this over?
Mez: No, I have worked out a system for answering our questions.
The square becomes a blaze of papers, dice and calculators. Random FRP rules books come flying out the front of the cubicle, plummeting loudly to the floor of the stage. From somewhere in the swirling mess comes Dave's voice.
Dave: Wait. That can't POSSIBLY be right.
Mez: OK, hold on. New Rule!
There are sounds of a scuffle. Mez is suddenly seen to make a graceful plunge to the stage. The papers settle. The remaining IMSA's are a little disheveled.
Gabe: Um, we're gonna have to say that the house would be pink, with red polkadots, John.
MC: Buffy? Agree, or disagree?
Buffy: Um, I guess I'll agree.
Dana: FOOL!
John: I'm sorry, but the answer is that the house would be black. So X gets the square. Bob, your turn. Who do you want to try?
Bob: Uh, I'd like to go with Brad, in the lower left.
MC: Brad!
Brad: I'd like to buy a vowel, Pat. Then you can deliver Vanna to my room.
BLuR: NO WAY! Vanna's MINE!
Brad: Sez you, Pud.
MC: Please! Let's have a little civility here!
BLuR: Spoilsport.
MC: Brad, here's your question: How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
Brad: You're kidding.
MC: . . .Ah, no. That's your question.
Brad: That's totally stupid. Get real questions.
MC: I don't write them up, I just ask them.
Brad: Droid. I'd have to guess that a woodchuck could chuck about three cockloads of wood if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
MC: Can we use words like that on television? Well, we can edit that out, later.
Brad: Fucking better not.
MC: Um, Bob? Agree or disagree?
Bob: Well, uh, well, lessee, I, disagree?
MC: And you are right to do so! Statistical studies done on woodchucks that have been surgically altered to be able to chuck wood, has shown that the average amount of chucked wood was actually 2.6 cockloads. So X gets the square! Buffy! Back to you!
Buffy: Wow, like, man. I'd better, like, go with the monsters for the block!
Camera cuts to a shot of the middle row, left square. Bo'dZilla, Bo'dZuki, and Bo'dJingaro are decked out in their blonde best. The hair is so high it's scraping against the top of the box.
Zilla: Wow! Like, we get to answer a question!
Buffy: Cool! Like, I need to block this guy, you know?
(I'm going to hit fast-forward here. There is about 5 minutes of this blonde-talk. . . . OK, that's enough.)
MC: Ladies, we have a question specifically tailored for your unique talents: What is the most efficient way to trash a modern japanese city?
Zilla: Well, first you have to knock out the phone lines.
Zuki: Absolutely important. Then you devastate the transportation channels into the city. You have to smash the roads, traintracks, airports, and seaports.
Missy: Then you have to start color-coordinating the downtown district. This demoralizes the defenders.
Zilla: Then you wade right in and have a good old time!
MC: I see. Well. Buffy? Agree or disagree?
Buffy: Totally.
MC: . . . Totally what?
Buffy: Fer sure.
MC: . . .
Zilla: She agrees, dumshit!
Suddenly, Missy becomes red in the face, and collapses behind the desk. Zilla shouts, "CLEAR!" She reaches down and does something. There is a sound of high-tension cables releasing violently, followed by a gasp of breath.
Zilla: Look, Babe. Cleavage just isn't THAT important.
MC: Ah, I think It's time for a commercial break? We'll be right back!
(Fast-forwarding past four 30-second slices of hell.)
MC: Welcome back! Buffy, our challenger, was correct in agreeing with the plan of attack, so O gets the square and Bob, the next choice is yours!
Bob: Well, I guess I'll go for MCQ, in the top right.
MC: John!
John is slouched in his chair, bouncing a wallyball off the sides of the cubicle.
John: What do you want, fuckwit?
MC: Now wait a minute, can we please refrain from profanity?
Troll: You think this is profanity? You ought to see one of our guild meetings.
MC: *sigh* Well, let's get on with it. John, why does the teflon stick to the pan?
John: I couldn't care less.
MC: Bob? Agree or disagree?
Bob: I agree.
MC: Right! He really couldn't care less. So, X gets the square. Buffy, you're up next.
Buffy: Oh, wow. I guess I'd better go with BLuR for the block!
When the camera cuts to BLuR in the middle-left square, most of the screen is electronically blocked out. Only his face can be seen. Every once in a while, a flash of bright neon can be glimpsed around the edges.
MC: Um, if you want to block, you'll have to go to BIG DAN BUDNEY, not BLuR.
Buffy: Oh, that's OK, I kinda like BLuR anyway.
BLuR: Gosh! *blush* GUYS! I WANT HER TO WIN!
MC: OK, Brian, here's your question: What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?
BLuR: It doesn't have an airspeed, John. Swallows can't fly.
MC: I see. Buffy?
BLuR: DISAGREE!
Buffy: Oh, I don't know.
BLuR: I LIED! DISAGREE!
Buffy: I guess I'll have to agree, Johnny.
MC: Don't call me Johnny. Well, swallows do, indeed fly, so X gets the square.
BLuR: SHIT!
MC: Bob, it's your turn, again.
Bob: I'll go with . . .
Brad: Hey! Do you know who that is up there?
Troll: Up where?
Brad: Right above you! Look!
Troll: Holy cow! Is it really him?
BLuR: It's . . .
World:
BDB: I hate you guys. I hate every one of you.
MC: Uh. Bob, you were saying?
Bob: Duh . . . Oh, Uh, I was going to go with
John: What the FUCK are you doing?
The screen cuts to a wide shot of the top right corner. BLuR has taken a can of red paint and put an O on the front of his box. Now he is climbing up the front of the grid, trying to get to John's box, with similar intentions. He panics when he sees that the camera is on him, and promptly plummets to the ground, with a splash of bright paint, which can only complement his outfit . . . by covering most of it.
MC: Oh, for Pete's sake. Can we please go to another commerical? Please?
(Once again, we mercifully dodge the adverts.)
MC: OK. Now, if we can get on with this. Bob, pick a fucking square.
Bob: Ah, I, I, I'll pick Troll, in the center square.
MC: Troll!
Troll: I'll give you a quarter for what's behind door #3.
MC: What?
Troll: Oh, nevermind.
MC: . . . Sure. Here's your question: Within 10^69, how many grains of sand are in the sahara desert?
Troll:
MC: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bob?
Bob: Uh huh?
MC: Agree or disagree?
Bob: What with?
MC: Right. Let's come back to Troll, later. Buffy, it's your turn!
Buffy: Um, I'd like to try the Son of God, please.
MC: BIG DAN BUDNEY, here's your question: What was the federal budget deficit last year?
BDB: Oh, whatever.
MC: 'Scuse me?
BDB: You're excused.
MC: Can you give us an answer, please?
BDB: Ahm, a dollar fifty.
MC: Buffy? Agree or disagree?
Buffy: EEEEE!
A wallyball zooms in from nowhere and clocks the host on the head. Screen cuts to John, trying to look apologetic.
John: Woah. Sorry. I was just trying out my triple backflip jump serve.
BLuR: DICK! Let her answer the question!
John: Hey, fuck you, pal. I'm talking WALLYBALL here, not some stupid fucking gameshow.
Troll: CHILDREN. ACK!
There is a huge, brassy roar. Troll is suddenly yanked out of his square by Bo'dZilla into the monster square. The screen goes blank, temporarily. Thru the darkness, sounds of whole japanese coastlines being ground into mush are intermixed with Troll's pitiful screams for help.
Troll: OK! I'LL GIVE YOU ANOTHER BUTTON!
Zilla: Well, only if you REALLY want to . . .
The screen clears up to show a much-damaged troll back in the center square.
MC: COMMERCIAL!
(A beer commercial, an ad for '92 corvettes, and another beer commercial, followed by a spot for a local funeral home go by at normal speed, 'cause I can't seem to find the remote, and I'm too lazy to go over to the TV.)
MC: Well, during the break, Buffy correctly disagreed with BIG DAN BUDNEY, the federal deficit is several billion dollars more than the $1.50 he suggested.
BDB: I was close.
BLuR: DICK! You LIED to her!
MC: So, O takes the square, and we're back to you, Bob.
Bob: I'll try TheDewan, please.
MC: OK, the lower right corner, and Greg!
Greg: What?
MC: Here's your question: In Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. What was Frodo supposed to do with the ring?
Greg: Now wait, how does this work? Do I tell you the answer? Or do I write it down?
Brad: ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGH! JUST ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION!
The director goes to a wide shot of the entire grid. Brad is charging across the bottom row to get to Dewan. The RUTABAGA dives out the front of the center box, to get out of the way. Brad reaches Dewan and a fight breaks out, which Greg wins by stuffing Brad so full of yummy cookies that he can't move. A crowd of stagehands with a forklift move Brad back to his own square.
Greg: FINE. He was supposed to drop the ring into the Mountain of Fire, destroying it.
MC: Bob?
Bob: THAT's THE STUPIDEST THING I EVER HEARD. I disagree.
Troll: BAHAHAH. Greg stole your clue!
MC: O gets the square. Buffy, you're up next.
Buffy: Well, like I guess I'll go with the texan wench.
Barb: I AM NOT TEXAN, DAMMIT.
MC: Well, wherever you're from, here's your question: Why?
Barb: Why not?
MC: Buffy?
Buffy: Like, Wow. Makes sense to me.
Barb: This is so mortifying.
MC: Correct! O takes the square.
BLuR: GO, TEAM, GO!
Buffy: Whee! OHMYGOD! I broke a nail!
Cut to a shot of Buffy fleeing the stage, weeping inconsolably.
Bob: So, does that mean I win?
BLuR: No fucking way, buddy.
MC: Ah, No. You still have to get three in a row, so you need the center square to win. Troll!
Troll: Left-handed Albanian Presidents for $400, Alex.
MC: Wrong game again. Here's your game-winning question, Troll: What is 3 + 6?
Extreme closeup of Troll's furrowed brow. He is clearly thinking mightily. After about 5 tension-packed minutes, he answers.
Troll: Booga.
MC: What?
John: He said, "Booga". Aren't you paying attention, Fuckwit? Isn't that why they pay you?
MC: Uh, Bob? Agree or disagree?
Bob: WITH WHAT? WHAT KIND OF SHIT IS THIS? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO PLAY THIS STUPID GAME?! WHAT ... ACK!
Cut to wide shot of the paramedics working on Bob's chest. Eventually, they shake their heads and throw a coat over him. There is a moment of silence.
BLuR: WE WIN AGAIN! WE WIN AGAIN!
There is a mad dash for the Buicks. The audience flees in terror. In the midst of it all, Troll is heard.
Troll: "This is the best racket we've come up with, yet!"