Family Night and the Spelling Bee V

So five years ago, the kids and I were looking for something to watch on TV one night, and happened upon the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C. We weren’t very interested at first, because none of us could even begin to spell the words, and it didn’t move very quickly. We almost changed the channel.

But then we took a closer look at the contestants.

In 1927, the New York Yankees had a lineup so powerful, they were called the “Murderers Row”. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and a bunch of other guys. Well my friends, the kids in the spelling bee are the Murderers Row of dorks, and a sacred family tradition was born. Since then, we’ve gathered every June to spend two solid hours making fun of these brilliant, eccentric, damaged little bastards. Honest to God, it’s our Super Bowl.

And for the fifth consecutive year, I’ve kept a running diary of the evening. It’s my favorite article to write, and from all the feedback I get, it’s your favorite one to read. As the years have passed, the jokes flying around the room have gotten dirtier, less politically correct, and funnier than anything I’ve ever experienced. Between this and the Miss USA beauty pageant (happens two days later), I physically hurt by the end of the weekend.

As always, I must preface this article by letting you know that I completely realize that we are a bunch of gigantic assholes, and we should get a better hobby. And for the fifth straight year, I don’t give a flying fuck. How many families ever get together and laugh their asses off for two hours?

Here we go:

7:00- Good evening, and welcome to the Sterner basement cave! I’m here with my gorgeous wife Annie, who for the fifth consecutive year, will try and fail to keep the jokes within some form of good taste. With us are my oldest son Mike (17), and youngest son Ben (12). I have another son Sam (16), who has chosen to go to a friend’s house instead of participating. He’s now out of my will. He’ll have to find that hundred bucks someplace else.

As usual, I’ll be in my recliner, scribbling notes like a maniac, and trying not to shit my pants. It’s a coin flip right now whether I make it or not.

The coverage starts, and this year the host will be Sage Steele from ESPN, who is a vast improvement over the always annoying Tom Bergeron. Goddamn, I hate Tom Bergeron. And with her once again is Paul Loeffler, who participated in this contest in the 90’s, and is celebrating his 33^rd year of virginity. Interviewing the kids will be Samantha Steele, who may or may not be related to Sage.

    Okay, probably not...

This year, there are nine kids in the final, so let’s introduce our crew. And once again, I’ll be giving them all nicknames. You’ll see why in just a moment.

Stuti Mishra- Stuti is a very pleasant little girl, except the poor kid has that Indian curse of possessing a pencil thin mustache. She looks like  John Waters . We’ll call her “PTM”.

Arvind Mahankali- Arvind was a finalist last year, and he’s from New York City. He hasn’t grown much, and he’s still a scrawny little bastard. Once again, he’ll be “Starvin’ Arvind”.

Jordan Hoffman- Very nice young lady, which as always, means she has not one chance in hell to win. She’s kind of a big girl- her head and body have the same size and shape as Adele. She collects snow globes, which instantly qualifies her as the “girl most likely to be living with eight cats in ten years”. She’ll be “Adele Who Can Spell”.

Emma Ciereszynski- See what I mean about writing out all the names? Another white girl- and I mean really really, really white. If she ever sees the sun, she’ll quickly burst into flames. Her heritage alone dictates that she has no shot at winning. She’ll be “Emma the Polack”. The joke potential is so high right now, I just pooped a little bit in my boxer briefs.

Snigdha Nandipati- Our third and final kid of Indian descent, which is a real down year for the ol’ Hindus. Her name is pronounced Snigg-duh, but I’ve modified it a bit. I decide to call her “Snigga’ With Attitude”, which draws a nice laugh from Mike, and a brief dirty look from Annie. Yeah, I’m going to hell…

Frank Cahill- Okay kids, we have a little bit of a situation here. Frank is from Parker, Colorado, and was coached in lacrosse by my very good friend and hockey teammate, whom I call Nard Dawg. Nard, who happens to be a loyal reader of this blogsite, has asked that I don’t pick on Frank, who is a very nice, gentle giant of a young man.

Nard Dawg’s a terrific defenseman on both teams that I play on. Do I risk a month’s worth of breakaways by cracking his boy? Fuck, what should I do?

Sorry, Nard. I’m an Equal Opportunity Dickhead. The boy’s about eight feet tall, is dressed like a UPS driver, and looks like a famous cartoon character. I know I’m going to pay for this, but dammit, he’s “Bob the Builder”. I can’t help it.

Gifton Wright- Gifton is from Jamaica, which always stirs memories of my shitty vacation there about 12 years ago. Don’t worry, be happy, my aching balls. Make no mistake- they hate our fucking guts, and if our tourist money didn’t comprise most of their economy, they’d be thrilled to see us all dead. Uh…not my favorite week.

Anyway, Gifton looks exactly like Lil’ Bill from the cartoons, which not only brings a Jamaican accent into play, but also my exceptionally poor Bill Cosby impression. So there’s that, I guess.

Nicholas Rushlow- I wrote about this kid for the past two years, and he finally worked his way into the finals. He’s a goofy little bastard, is a ginger, and has a perfect Jew-Fro. Shit, take a look for yourself:

So he finally made it to the Big Dance, and I am a very happy short guy right now. Mike names him the “Spellin’ Hebrew”, which draws the first DVR pause of the night, while I cry for a minute. Made it almost six minutes this year…

Lena Greenberg- holy Mother of God. There’s one special mutant every year, and this year it’s Lena. She has a high, squeaky voice, and moves around like she’s autistic, but she’s not. At least I don’t think she is. Mike wants to call her “Squeaky Jew”, but Nicholas is already representing the Chosen People. So I intervene and name her “Rain Girl”.

(Take a moment on that one if you need it. Ah, there it is. Okay, let’s move on…)

7:10- Alrighty, we’re finally past all the intros and features, and we’re ready to spell some words you’ve never heard of. Just in case you’re keeping score early, there are four kids of color (three Indians and Lil’ Bill), and five white kids (well, four white kids and Rain Girl- not sure she is of our species), which kind of makes this the Halley’s Comet of spelling bees. You probably won’t see this again in your lifetime. Better wake the kids.

Annie asks me to pause the DVR, and tries to invoke the Mom Rule, which states that you can say anything you want, as long as you don’t fart for the whole contest. Mike says he sorry, but he had hot Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner. You have a better chance of plugging Old Fuckin’ Faithful than Mike’s ass right now. God help us…

Once again, the moderator is Denver’s own Dr. Jacques Bailey, who has possibly the most boring voice on planet Earth. I do a quick impression of Dr. Bailey having sex, deadpanning “Take it all…take it all, you bitch…"

SWA (Snigga’ With Attitude- last time I’ll write that, I promise) gets the first word, and it’s psammon (pronounced like salmon). She asks for a sentence, and Mike says “your vagina smells just like psammon”. Dammit- little fucker got me again.  DVR pause…

7:15- Everyone’s cruising through the round. Lil’ Bill steps up, and Mike says “you’re word is marijuana”. He’s very polite- thanks Dr. Bailey after every question. No fuckin’ way he’s a true Jamaican.

Oh shit, there goes Adele Who Can Spell on her first word, which is canities (graying of hair). That’s really too bad… do you know why? Because…she could have HAD IT ALLLLLLLLL!

7:20- Here comes Emma the Polack. She has an exceptionally deep voice for a girl- she sounds like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. I beat Mike to the punch and yell out “It puts the lotion on it’s skin”. Her dad looks like Stephen King. Of course, that’s if Stephen King was a Polack. Wait...he might be. 

Here’s a shocker- Emma’s gone on her first word, too. It was ridotto, which is a public dance .  This sucks- I had so many more Polish jokes on the burner. Fuck.

7:30- Finally, it’s the Spellin’ Hebrew for his first word. He walks up with a big smile on his face and says “Hello, Dr. Bailey”. Without any hesitation Mike does a great Dr. Bailey monotone, and says, “Hello, Jew”.

I should have been expecting it, but it caught me completely off guard. I spend the next five minutes rolling around in my recliner like an idiot while everybody else goes upstairs for a snack. I think he’s trying to kill me so he can get Sam’s $100 share of the inheritance. That one just destroyed me.

7:35- Okay, we’re back, and I’ve recovered a little. We turn the DVR back on so we can find out what Spellin’ Hebrew’s word is. It’s turnverein, which is an athletic club. He asks for it in a sentence. Mike says, “A turnverein is something your people have no use for”. Fuck me- DVR goes right back on pause…

7:40- Mike just got back in the room- Annie gave him a five minute major after his 100th BW3 fart in about half an hour. I checked the replay- she got that call right. I still say if they have the Scripps Howard National Fart-Off, we'll fill this fuckin' house with trophies. Their bedroom smells like a hot day at the zoo. 

7:45- We’re into the next round, and we still have seven left. It’s time for Rain Girl, and she gets the word otosteon. It’s pronounced oh-toss-tee-on, but Lena can’t say the word back, and she’s squealing like a stuck pig. It goes something like this.

Dr. Bailey- “Otosteon”.

Rain Girl- “Protozoan?”

Dr. Bailey- “Otosteon”

Rain Girl (even higher voice)- “Otosseton?”

Dr. Bailey (voice never changing)- “Otosteon”.

Rain Girl (voice only dogs can hear)- “Tossetron?”

Finally Mike jumps up and screams “SWEET ABRAHAM!! IT’S FUCKING OTOSTEON!!!”

Sweet Abraham? Are you shittin’ me? Guess what happens next. We’re like 45 minutes into this,  my stomach muscles are shot to hell, and I can't cry another tear. No way I get through another hour. By the way, Rain Girl finally says it right, and spells the goddamn thing. Thank God- I’m not ready for her to leave yet.

7:50- Here comes Bob the Builder, and gets the word porwigle (tadpole). Annie speaks right up: “Dad has a porwigle in his pants right now”. Sure, not a word all fuckin’ night, and she chimes right in with a little dick joke. That does it- I'm buying that 17 year old Russian girl that emailed she's in love with me. I believe her now. 

Uh-oh, he misses it. He walks off the stage, and is met by his dad, who looks like he stole Johnny Cash’s shirt. This is probably a blessing in disguise, because now I get to keep my friend Nard Dawg, unless he knows someone in a beauty pageant. In that case, we're through.

As he leaves, I sing “BOB, THE BUILDER! BOB, THE BUILDER! CAN HE SPELL IT?”

Everyone else- “NO, HE CAN’T!!”

Goddamn, I love spelling bee night…

7:55- We haven’t lost anyone lately, and here comes my Rain Girl. She gets yttiferous, and looks like her head is going to explode. Rain Mom in the audience buries her head in her hands-she’s been doing that all night.   

Holy shit- she gets it right! She screams out a sound that shatters Dr. Bailey’s glasses, and goes back to her seat. I swear to God, we spend the next three minutes arguing whether she’s autistic, deaf, retarded, or just hopelessly fucked up. She’s making deaf people’s noises, but there isn’t a hearing aid. When the debate ends, the consensus remains that she’s FUBAR.


   

8:00- Oops, there goes Lil’ Bill on ericeticolous (inheriting a habit). He slowly walks off the stage, because well, he’s Jamaican, and they do everything slowly. Did I mention I didn’t have that great of a time in Jamaica? He does give a nice low five to a kid in a wheelchair, and then asks the kid if he can sell him a worthless bracelet for five dollars. Okay, I made that last part up.

Jamaica sucks.

8:10- It’s Spellin’ Hebrew’s turn, but before his word, they do a little feature about his lucky yellow shirt. He’s worn it for all four years he’s been in the bee, and never placed higher than 14^th before.

Me-“Anybody want to tell me what’s so lucky about a shirt that’s never made it to the finals?”

Mike- “It’s the only shirt his dad will buy him. You know, because he’s a Jew”.

The feature continues about how his favorite words are those with German derivation. Uh-oh… I can see this one coming down Broadway…

Mike- “How the hell can he love German words? He's a Jew!!”

I recover from my latest conniption just in time to see the kid miss vetiver (fragrance). He cheerfully salutes the crowd, and strolls off in fifth place, as Mike says “sha…lom”. I’m going to miss him and his lucky shirt.

8:12- It’s time for Rain Girl’s latest adventure, and she gets the word Geistlich (deep feeling). Instead of taking the full 2.5 minutes like she has all night, she confidently spells it out in about 30 seconds. As she’s turning to walk back to her chair, she hears the “ding” of the bell letting her know she missed. Shouldn’t have rushed, Rain Girl.

She walks off the stage in tears, and collapses on the little couch they make all the losers sit on while they council them not to kill themselves when they get back to their hotel room. Rain Mom comes to comfort her, and they hug, and rock back and forth in one big ball of crazy. I have a geistlich that they're making a suicide pact right now.

Goodbye, Lena Greenberg. My year wouldn’t have been the same without you.

It occurs to me that we lost two possible Jewish contestants in a row. I quickly blurt out to beat Mike: “Two straight Jewish kids are gone. This is like Nuremburg.”

Ah, the old reliable Holocaust joke- this gives me the outright lead for the Most Offensive Remark of the Evening. Keeping my fingers crossed…

8:20- They take a little break, and we’re down to three. Guess what? It’s all the Indian kids! Gee, no shit. Like my dad says, the curry always rises to the top.

Okay, he doesn’t say that.

Oh, crap! My favorite to win, Starvin’ Arvind, misses schwannoma (tumor on a nerve). I really thought he was hoisting the trophy this year, and so did his dad, who is visibly pissed right now. He might be having his own schwannoma by the end of the night.

So we’re left with two to battle it out. Pencil Thin Mustache, who’s been flying under the radar all night, and SWA, who’s been solid. This could go either way.

PTM correctly spells chionablepsia (snow blindness), and when they show SWA’s family in the audience, her little brother positions himself to make sure he’s in the camera shot. He looks at the monitor, and then makes a face for the camera, and repeats that a few times. That little fucker needs to go away.

SWA gets hers right, and then PTM tries schwarmerei (enthusiasm). Mike says in a pretty good Indian accent, “I believe that is the name of one of my Gods”. Last DVR pause- I’m just wrecked at this point.

She misses, and SWA only has to spell one more word to win the whole shootin’ match.  Mike yells out “Snigga’, please!”. Okay, that’s the last DVR pause of the night. I may have lost control of my bowels. 

That word is guetapens (ambush). Of course she rattles it off, and she is our winner! And guess who rushes on stage? That’s right, her fucking little brother, who jumps in front of SWA, and waves to the camera. I’d love to slap him right out from underneath that mustache he’s sporting at 10 years old.

For the fifth straight year, the trophy is presented by Mr. Richard Boehne, and for the fifth straight year, we wonder if they call him “Dick Bone”. It has become a tradition for us. Of course, the little brother snatches the trophy away from her, and holds it up for the crowd. Little prick…

Anyway, that’s it for tonight! Hope you enjoyed yourself as much as we did, and stay tuned for the running diary of the Miss USA pageant, that happens in just a couple of days. I should have recovered by then.