Prove You're Human!
RADIO
By EDWIN O’CONNOR
THE modern radio quiz program has one positive value, in that it lends almost unlimited support to those who believe that the human race is marching doubletime to the rear, in a frantic attempt to recapture the cave-like simplicity of Pleistocene life. At the moment, the quiz show is the number one exhibit in this department of reverse evolution, and if it is truly a symbol of our times, it behooves us all to lay in a supply of fur suits and to read up on the domestic habits of the woolly rhinoceros.
In the beginning, the quiz program was a relatively inoffensive item, representing an attempt on the part of the broadcasting industry to entertain its listeners by the simple device of proving to them that their fellow citizens were not quite bright. One man, called the quiz master, asked questions of selected members of a studio audience. The questions then were much as they are now, for radio has always found fascination in asking as many people as possible, Who preceded Franklin Pierce as Chief Executive of the United States? or, What famous memorial is depicted on the reverse of a five-dollar bill?
It was those early quiz masters, however, who were different. When they asked a contestant a quest ion, even though it were of a nature so formidable it might well have tried the mind of a Tony Galento, they stipulated that the contestant should answer that question in order to win the attached award. Moreover — and this was their undoing — they held that the answer must come from the contestant himself, with no outside assistance. This was simply too much: radio slowly and quietly began to weed its garden, and one by one these perfectionists and their programs began to disappear. A very few remain today, quaint holdovers from another time, as out of place among their shining descendants as a handful of Sumerian Nail Writers in the lobby of the Ritz. The contemporary quiz master presides over a quiz show which has reversed its field; although it still asks questions, it regards the unaided answer as an irrelevancy. It has established in our lives, firmly and irremovably, the principle that ignorance is not only bliss: it’s money in the bank!
The time has come to abandon all the hocus-pocus of the question program, which really is looking for no answers at all. I advocate the substitution of another program, which, while retaining every catastrophic feature of the first, would be simpler, more logical, and more aboveboard. This program would be called “Prove You’re Human!” and for the convenience of any interested parties I submit it herewith in abbreviated form.
Like all of today’s quiz programs, “Prove You’re Human!” would have a quiz master, an announcer, abundant gifts, and a studio audience, which would - like all studio audiences — be carefully screened before broadcast time, in order to ensure the presence on the air of its dullest and most untalented members. The program would begin, logically enough, with the announcer giving the clue to the nature of the show: —
ANNOUNCER (shouting): Hello, out there! It’s time to — prove you’re human!
The studio audience immediately responds to this invitation with a series of shrieks and bloodcurdling screams, all of which have a distinctly inhuman quality. This is not a reaction peculiar to this program, however. It is heard at the opening of all quiz programs, and is simply the blood cry of the American adult who has scented the presence of “Something for free.”
ANNOUNCER: Ye-e-es, sir! And now here he is — the man with the million-dollar smile and the pocketbook to match — that watchdog of the human race who makes you prove you’re human — Curly Cornwallis!
More shrieks and screams, this time coincident with the appearance of a bald man who runs out on the stage, waving with one hand and significantly tapping his bald head with the other. At this latter gesture the studio positively boils with hysteria, the audience shouting its approval of the fiendish twist of wit that gave this hairless man the nickname “Curly.”
Finally things quiet down, as the audience senses that Curly Cornwallis is about to start the ball rolling. He does.
CURLY: Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha! Is everybody HUMAN?
AUDIENCE(ecstatically): Yes!
CURLY: Well — you’ve got to prove it to me! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!
The audience roars, Curly — just to show that he’s versatile — laughs, and then everyone settles down to the gay business of getting something for nothing. In a few brief sentences, Curly explains the rules of the program: no prompting from the audience; the contestant must say something that will establish him or her as a human being; and, should there be any doubt, the decision will rest with the studio audience, whose vocal reaction will be registered on a sensitive measuring device known as the “Giant Humanometer.”
This done, Curly turns to the first contestant of the evening, a nervous, middle-aged woman with a silly smile on her face.
CURLY : All right! Here’s our first contestant. Now remember — all you have to do to win a swell prize is to give me some proof that you’re human. Come on, now — prove you’re human!
CONTESTANT (giggling nervously): Ooh hoo hoo liooo!
CURLY (doubling with mirth): Ah ha ha ha ha ha!
CONTESTANT (now panic-stricken): Ooh hoo hoo hoo HOOOOO!
CURLY (unsheathing the rapier): You’re either a very nervous human — or a very normal owl!
This is it! Chairs shake, the building rocks, and eventually a laugh-maddened mob settles, limp and helpless, back into its seats, in each heart the breathless entreaty for mercy: “Oh, Curly! Cut it out!” The magnificent funster, however, never lets up. On the stage, his index fingers are curved above his head, to suggest the feathered tufts of the horned owl, and from time to time he yells, “Whoo! Whoo!” Finally, tiring of this, he turns again to his contestant, who is now standing at the microphone only because she is being held up by the announcer.
CURLY (addressing her): Well, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to give you one more chance to prove you’re human, just to show you that we’re all good sports. And I’m going to give you one little hint: one of the best ways of proving you’re human is to tell me your name!
CONTESTANT (struggling valiantly) : I — I’m Adele Carroway — and (a sudden inspiration provokes a rush of words). I live in Brooklyn, New York!
CURLY (turning to the audience in wild excitement): She did it! How about that, folks? How about that? Ah ha ha ha ha ha!
Down in the audience, the spirit of the carnival prevails. On the stage, Curly can be seen pumping Adele’s hand, simultaneously shouting words of congratulation into the microphone. A number of men are observed carefully wheeling a great, canvascovered object in from the wings. This is the prize.
CURLY: Yes, Miss Carroway, there’s absolutely no doubt about it — you are human! And because you’ve proved this so successfully tonight, “Prove You’re Human!” has a little gift for you. It’s a brand-new automobile, with white side-wall tires!
The canvas is whisked off, and a great gasp passes through the studio, suggesting that a large portion of those present have been reduced to pure jelly by the revealed magnificence. Almost immediately, however, the reverential gasp is replaced by the more customary shouts, whistles, and applause, which diminish only when the lucky winner steps to the microphone to acknowledge her victory.
CONTESTANT (primly): It’s just what I always wan-ned.
More applause at this. Suddenly Curly runs to the front of the stage, his face deadly serious. He waves for quiet. In his hand is a note just handed him by the announcer.
CURLY (gravely): Folks, I’ve just been told that history has been made on the “Prove You’re Human!” program tonight. It seems that Adele Carroway of Brooklyn, New York, not only proved that she was human — she proved it by means of a compound sentence! That’s the first time this has ever happened on our little program, and Miss Carroway, we want you to know that we think it’s pretty swell!
A dignified round of applause is accorded this statement, and in one of the most solemn moments in American broadcasting history, she is handed, as a bonus, a bundle of stock certificates which give her the controlling interest in Electric Bond and Share. She drives off the stage in her new car, the audience cheers, and Curly, by way of appropriate farewell, brings his hand to his forehead in a crisp military salute. Then, Miss Carroway gone, he marches to the microphone, laughs engagingly, and the spell is broken. It is time for the next contestant.
As I see it’, “Prove You’re Human!” has everything to guarantee it leadership in the quiz field. There is always present a suitably maniacal atmosphere. The prizes would be bigger and better than before, and what is more important, they would be given away in return for much less than ever before—to be precise, in return for nothing at all. “Prove You’re Human!” might, in fact, become the last word in radio quiz programs, and if this were the case, what more could one ask of it?