It’s time to set a few things straight. First and foremost: if you watch The Price Is Right and sit idly by while I “work,” I hate you. You are the reason my life sucks.
For 40+ years, I’ve been forced to climb a mountain by the taskmasters at CBS. And not just climb — I’m expected to topple over the edge and crash some 100 feet (well, it’s 100 feet to me anyways) to a death that I pray will quickly come and yet never does. I’d sooner perform one of those mundane nothing jobs you losers constantly complain about. Oh, you operate a cash register and sometimes ring up multiple items? How I weep. When’s the last time you ended up in fucking traction because your co-worker didn’t know the price of milk?
This is my lot. If some loser can’t guess the price of a coffee maker, or a set of non-stick baking sheets, I go plummeting to my doom. Still sad that your boss makes you brew extra coffee on Free Cup Friday? You poor baby.
If I’m not crashing, or in the hospital having my bones pieced together AGAIN, I’m probably sitting in my dingy apartment, alone, contemplating what went wrong. Were the prices too random? Was the product too obscure? Did the contestant simply assume we were in Mexico and thus guessed in pesos? These are the thoughts that spin in my head while stuck here all by my lonesome. No friends, no family, no money (receiving a new hospital bill every other day adds up, you know,) and worst of all, no name!
It’s been so long since anybody called me something other than “Mountain Guy,” “Yodel Man” or some stereotypical tripe like Hans or Fritz, that I myself have forgotten who I am. Even the hospital people call me “Mr. Yodel,” like I’m a silly German clown or something. I probably once had a respectable family name, but that was a long time ago. Now I’m just “That Cliffhanger Dude,” even on my ID.
How did this happen? How could I, a man of such limitless artistic and social potential, be reduced to this? I’m not sure if you knew this (not likely,) but I could have been a major polka superstar. You know that happy-dappy music they play as I climb my way to yet another crippling catastrophe? I recorded that. I’m the accordionist AND the yodeler. Everybody loved my act. I was going to be huge!
So what happened?
Weird Al happened, that’s what! I had started doing the Cliffhanger game on the side, to make ends meet until my polka career took off. Then this moron showed up, became famous, and destroyed EVERYTHING I loved. Suddenly, polka was a joke. People expected me to be funny and zany like Al and, when they discovered I was not, they walked away and demanded a refund. If they hadn’t bought a ticket yet, they just mugged me and left me for dead.
My polka earnings dwindled to nothingness; nobody gave a rip about accordions anymore, unless Al was playing them. Even though I could yodel with the best of them, something he did not do, the public still ignored me. So I was forced to crawl to CBS and beg them to turn “Cliffhangers” into a full-time deal. They eagerly said yes — after all, the demented mongrels in the audience loved seeing me shatter into pieces, just as you sickos do today.
But it’s not just you common TV-watching lot, oh no. The people that run this abomination of a show, they’re even worse. They’re the ones who exploit me, make money off of me, and profit off my pain. Lovable old Bob Barker; everyone loved him, right? He cared so much about the poor widdle animals, and always made damn sure you cut off their junk so they wouldn’t make babies.
Meanwhile, my babymaker’s been de-commissioned since 1986, when some brain-dead housewife guessed $100 for a blender and I went up the entire mountain in one shot, no rest. I was beyond exhausted, and then down I went! I was unable to land properly, and I’ve been peeing through a little plastic tube ever since.
Bob simply laughed at my misfortune, while leering at some random model who he hired to point at refrigerators and smile. I hope a dog spayed or neutered HIM. With teeth.
And then came the magical day when Bob announced his retirement. When he finally said goodbye and left CBS Studios, I did the Dance Of Joy. Maybe the new host would set me free? After decades of climbing and falling, perhaps I’d finally earned a peaceful retirement.
But nooooooo. Drew Carey’s no better than Bob. If anything, he’s worse, taking every chance to mock me as I walk that rocky road to ruin, calling me Yodely Guy like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever said. Well, I’ve seen your sitcom, not to mention your attempt at Whose Line. Calling me Yodely Guy IS the funniest thing you’ve ever said. Suck that, just like some machine sucked away all your fat a few years ago.
So why do I continue? Why don’t I just find the highest cliff possible and yodel my way to eternal rest? Simple; I believe in love. And I believe that the one for me is still out there. In fact, I already know who:
Sigh … Chad. My one and only. Only you truly understand the game I’m forced to play. Only you successfully guessed the prices of all three shrinky-dink prizes Bob stuck in front of you. As I watched you play your perfect game, my heart began to race. I didn’t have to fall. My bones would remain intact. In fact, I wouldn’t have to move one tired old muscle in my old tired legs. You were there to rescue me. I never felt so happy!
And then you were gone. Some stagehand whisked you away to spin the Big Wheel, and I never saw you again. But I keep faith, Chad. On the Internet, anyone can find anyone else. One day, you will find this article, track me down, and we will live happily ever after.
Dreaming of a Chad-filled life is honestly the only reason I still soldier on. It’s certainly not because of CBS, the show, Bob, Drew, or any of you losers who sit at home and revel in my pain. One day, Chad and I will be together, and I’ll start yodeling again, without a care in the world. As for your stupid mountain?
Get Drew to climb the damn thing. He looks dapper in the costume and, if he falls and shatters his spine, nobody would miss him. Least of all me.
This article was originally written for TheGeekout, but they closed their doors before bothering to post it. But Yodel Man’s message, and his quest to find his true love Chad, cannot and should not be silenced because one little website decided to stop website-ing without warning.
Chad, if you’re out there, contact me and I’ll hook you up with Hans. You two can still make beautiful music together. It’s not too late, no never too late.