You May Already Be A Winner Guy

Volume XI
Issue 8
August 2008

QuestionLady is written and played by SL Stukey, herself an Obscure Celebrity of a sort. It is likely that somewhere, sometime, you have read something she has written, especially if you live in the Midwestern United States. She has been writing promotional material, instruction manuals, and other such everyday literature for many years (she'd say how many, if she could remember what year she started, it was 1989, or maybe 1991). She always thought she'd be a real writer someday, but she's not holding her breath anymore.

She can be contacted at:

You May Already
Be a Winner Guy

This month, QuestionLady visits the You May Already Be a Winner Guy. QL trekked out to YMABWG’s house, as he refused to meet anywhere else, as he was expecting a call at any moment.

And let me tell you, QL was a bit nervous, going to an unknown house after speaking to YMABWG on the phone. He seemed a bit high-strung. Nor was she made more comfortable by the appearance of said house. On the outside it was fine, a typical, modest, one-family dwelling, with a fairly new paint job and a neatly trimmed lawn—just like in all the news photos of the mad killer’s house.

QL knocked on the door. It opened, and YMABWG frantically waved her inside.

YMABWG: Come in, come in, hurry, I can’t be away from the phone for long.

The inside of the house was a scene from the Home Shopping Gone Mad Channel. While not as cluttered as Miser Hoarding Guy’s house (there was actual floor space, not merely trails winding around the stacks of debris), there were stacks of mail and boxes of merchandise on every flat surface, and a few that weren’t—flat that is. YMABWG sat down in the living room in the only chair that wasn’t weighed down with mail, a recliner. This chair had a TV Guide/remote cozy on one overstuffed arm. From the cozy, YMABWG plucked a cordless phone which he clutched during the remainder of the interview.

YMABWG was an average-looking man in late middle age, neatly attired in dress slacks and a carefully pressed shirt reminiscent of the classic bowling shirt. He had an unfortunate taste in socks, bright yellow, but his shoes were a proper, conservative black oxford.

QL (looking around): So, you’ve been a winner in the Super Big Magazine and Giftware Sweepstakes. What all have you won?
YMABWG: Nothing, yet. I’m a finalist, though.

QL, looking for a place to sit, or at least stand out of the way of the merchandise, backs into a shelf full of ceramic angels and lifelike plastic hummingbirds whose eyes were painted only a little off center.

QL: If you haven’t won, where’d you get all this stuff?
YMABWG: I take advantage of the special offers for finalists.

QL: You do know, don’t you, that you don’t have to buy something to enter?
YMABWG: Oh, of course, but I can’t resist such great deals.

QL picks up a genuine artificial gold plated something or other—she couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

QL: I see.
YMABWG: All these collectables—where else would I have found such a selection and all without leaving the comfort of my own home?

QL: I see. Back to the sweepstakes. You say you’re a finalist? And you expect the Prize People to show up on your doorstep any time now?
YMABWG: Yes. I have the documents right here.

YMABWG hands QL an EX-pand-O-Folder stuffed full of slips of paper. QL leafs through the folder. It is full of official looking bits of paper, all marked "SAVE for your RECORDS" and "PRESENT to the PRIZE PEOPLE when they ARRIVE!"

QL: Um, some of these are dated 1979. Haven’t those prizes already been awarded?
YMABWG: Maybe. But I keep them, just in case there was a mistake and the Prize People discover I was the actual winner.

QL: I see. (QL hands the EX-pand-O-Folder back to YMABWG) When you called the Globe-Guardian, you spoke as if the Prize People were on your doorstep. Exactly when do you expect to see them?
YMABWG: Oh, you never know, any time—they don’t give you any warning—you have to be ready at all times.

QL: What about all those commercials where they announce the date they’re informing the winner?
YMABWG: Those are just to throw off the amateurs—so they stay home one night—the Prize People can show up whenever they like. If you aren’t home, you miss out!

QL: Uh, don’t the rules say that even if you aren’t home when the Prize People show up, they will contact you at a later time?
YMABWG: I’m not leaving anything to chance! I’m going to be right here! Waiting! I’m not missing the Prize People’s visit.

QL: Doesn’t that interfere in your social life? Not to mention your job?
YMABWG: No, no, I go to work every day. The Prize People know a man has to make a living. They will show up at the office, if they decide to give the prize during the workday. They wouldn’t find me if I stayed at home.

QL waits for YMABWG to continue, but he sits quietly, grasping the cordless phone.)

QL: What about your social life? Doesn’t waiting for the Prize People curtail social activity?
YMABWG: There’ll be time enough for all that after I’ve won. Of course, then I’ll have to look out for all the greedy opportunists, so I’ll have to limit my social events. I’ll have to take care of myself and my prize. (pause) The wife insists on having holiday gatherings, and she has some, uh, some, ladies book club or the like, but other than that, my foot is down. We are always ready for the Prize People to visit.

At this point, QL caught a brief glimpse of YMABWG’s long-suffering wife, who looked very long-suffering. QL had a fleeting thought of interviewing her, but LSW disappeared too quickly for any contact.

QL: So, for the most part, your whole life’s spent ordering magazines and merchandise from the Super Big Magazine and Giftware Sweepstakes and waiting for the Prize People?
YMABWG: Yes. After I get my big prize, there’ll be plenty of time to travel and all that other stuff.

QL: I see. (QL is slightly boggled by YMABWG’s intensity and single mindedness. She is not sure what to ask that would get any more of a response beyond a variant of the ‘waiting for the Prize People’ answer. There is an awkward silence. She is saved by the doorbell. YMABWG leaps for the door.)
YMABWG: They’re here!

YMABWG flings open the door. It is not the Prize People. It is a frightened Pizza Delivery Guy, who nearly drops the pizza and complimentary 2-liter of soda. From somewhere else in the house, YMABWG’s son appears.

YMABWG’s Son: Relax, Dad, it’s just my pizza.

YMABWG’s Son pays Pizza Delivery Guy. QL takes this opportunity to slip away, leaving YMABWG to continue his vigil. Back at the office, QL filled out her own Super Big Magazine and Giftware Sweepstakes entries, just in case. She did not order any merchandise, not even a magazine, though she has ordered magazines from the Super Big folks before, and she does not save the official looking slips of paper. She mailed the entry form, but is not holding her breath, or sitting at home waiting for the Prize People. QL returned to her office, sat back in the traditional heirloom Globe-Guardian office chair, and poured a slug of Dr. Pepper. This interviewing gig takes it out of you! But at least QL’s picture doesn’t appear on the news, along with a photo of a modest one-family dwelling.

[ Home ]