I'm watching an old episode of Family Feud on the Game Show Network, and I am floored. I think I'd be better at this game than anyone who has ever been on it. But more importantly, I could never bring myself to respond "good answer" to anything they say.

Name a profession with a high divorce rate? Bus Driver!

Good answer!

What would ruin a party? No pretzels!

Good answer!

Who is the most incredible woman who ever lived? Betty Ford!

Good Answer!

My answers were "entertainment," "no guests," and "the Virgin Mary," respectively. Those were numbers 2, 1, and 1. Granted, I am in the comfort of my home whereas these people are under the hot lights of a terribly cheesy television studio.

I know that game shows are harder in person; I have been on two of them. Recently I was on Street Smarts and got my butt whooped. Yes, my nerves had something to do with it. But that's also a game based on luck. Family Feud is based on skill. The skill of tapping in to the collective conciseness of 100 morons, but skill nonetheless.

When I was 12, I was also on Video Power, a short-lived show where four pre-teens competed against each other at various Nintendo games. I did okay - until the host stepped on my foot. He said he didn't want to reshoot so I lost. I got a great consolation prize so I didn't mind. Besides, who am I to argue with THE Johnny Arcade?

Until now, I never thought of looking up Johnny Arcade on the web. But now I know his real name is Stivi Pakoski and he hasn't done much since. Take that, Stivi. Serves you right for ruining my chances to get covered in Velcro and stick video games to my chest in the bonus round.

While watching the Feud, I marvel at how dumb people can be. A gentleman was just asked to name a fictional bear and he said, "polar." And of course, his family encouraged him. A quick impression of my family in the same situation:

"Polar!"

"What are you, stupid! Get out of the family! You're dead to me! Guards!"

And that's how it should be.

Maybe I'm glad my family never played the Feud, since one of us would likely say something silly, and we'd have to go through all the hassle of selling someone on the black market.

Jeopardy is a difficult show, and even if you know the answers, someone else is likely to buzz in before you. Win Ben Stein's Money was tough, especially when Jimmy Kimmel would waste the contestant's time by stuttering over the questions. And Quiz Show was almost impossible; not only would the producers make things harder for contestants they didn't like, but you'd have to get by Ralph Fiennes.

Other shows are just too easy. Contestants on Wheel of Fortune routinely need all the letters turned in order to solve the puzzle. The last contestant on the Price is Right rarely figures out that you always bid "blank-oh-one." And contestants on Hollywood Squares don't know how to play tic tac toe, let alone the answers to any of the questions.

And yet, their families are still encouraging. I've seen people on the Wheel lose cars during a puzzle that an eight-year-old playing hangman would have solved. And when their families come up on stage at the end, they still dance and hug and say "good answer." Even though she guessed that a strawberry dessert would be the Mojave.

Perhaps it's a positive sign. A sign that we're taught to love our families so unconditionally that we hug them even when they display the IQ of Vienna Sausage. Or maybe it's a sign that we love being on TV so much that nothing else matters to us when we are.

Maybe Johnny Arcade knows. Next time I'm at Starbucks, I'll ask him.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

When I was five, I didn't know much. My shoes were still Velcro, I had no knowledge of fractions, and I couldn't ride a bike. (Though to be fair, I still haven't grasped that one). But I knew better than to take advice from Mr. T.

It has come to my attention that in 1984, Mr. T released a motivational video for kids called "Be Somebody or Be Somebody's Fool." Due to the irreparable damage it could have caused, I'm glad I didn't know about it when I was a kid. But I wish I'd learned about it sooner than this week because it's the single greatest thing I've ever seen.

Thanks to the miracle of the internet and the procrastinatory habits of people everywhere, the entire video is available online. Just search for the title and you too will see the single greatest thing I've ever seen.

The most popular part of the tape is a video about treating your mother right. The segment starts out innocently enough, with an argument between two kids typically too ugly to be cast in regular videos. It's the only time I've seen two people battling where most of the things they say about each other are pretty accurate.

Suddenly, one of the kids insults the other's mother - and that's when T steps in. He explains that you should respect your mother, no matter who she is and that insulting one mother is like insulting all mothers. Which is an odd logical jump, but I wasn't concentrating on the logic since I was still reeling from the sudden site of Mr. T.

If that wasn't enough, Mr. T then produces a microphone. I don't know where he got it from - perhaps it was obscured by his 73 pounds of gold chains or lodged in his Mohawk. Wherever it came from, I'm sure the mic was upset when The T Man started singing toward it. I say "toward" because Mr. T's performance had all the energy of a narcoleptic sloth.

The camera then panned out to reveal the Mr. T backup dancers: three middle-aged women too ugly for the PTA. I suddenly realized where those kids must have come from. The most interesting part is that the women were all wearing different outfits. How low budget of a film are you making when your backup dancers are told "come as you are"? Though the budget must have covered makeup; one of the women wore enough rouge to choke a hooker.

And since you can only take so much of Mr. T's narcoleptic stylings in front of the jittery, uncoordinated movements of three Harper Valley rejects, the video also shows a montage of people interacting in positive and negative ways with their mothers. Oddly enough, there are segments where you can't tell if it's a good or bad example. Including one where a child hugs his mother, but gets ice cream all over her face. Which is only positive if she was trying to look like an extra in the latest John Holmes flick.


The song's message was clear - treat your mother right. I know this because that phrase was uttered several hundred times. I say "uttered" because, well, that narcoleptic sloth thing we discussed earlier. Treat your mother right? I agree, but only if she doesn't make you watch this video. Otherwise she should be contractually obligated to pay for your psychotherapy.

The video also includes Mr. T in various scenarios, alternating between problem solving and giving up completely, which is probably a lesson he learned from his producers. I was really hoping T would end by saying, "Come on kids, if I can make it, anyone can. Look at me - I have no discernable talent, and I'm famous!"

I don't know who produced the video because I was laughing too hard to read the credits. But I would have loved to have been at the board meeting when they were watching the finished product.

"We paid $17 in production costs for this?"

It is funny to think that Mr T. was 1984's Barney. That kids my age might have listened to the bedazzled behemoth, that he was such a star that parents looked to him as the only way to reach their children. Anyone who watches VH1 knows that 1984 was a ridiculous year. But this video was so strange, even George Orwell couldn't have seen it coming.

I'm guessing Mr. T made this video to try to have a positive impact on youth at the time; he didn't just want to be remembered for his breakfast cereal and ridiculous ensemble. So he hired a few people dressed even worse then him, and now his legacy lives on. In the hearts, minds, and therapy bills of people everywhere.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I have written several columns about what I hate in the world. I've written about oil companies and bar jerks and living with little to no butt. Rarely do I write a column about something I love. Of course, that's because it's usually more fun to mock stuff. Seriously, give it a shot, it's awesome.

There are, however, things in this world I love. I love baseball, and good weather, and my family most of the time. I guess I love them all of the time, but that was hard to remember during this one car trip to Baltimore we all took when I was nine. I didn't really like any of them that day. It's fair - they didn't like me much either.

One thing I've always loved is my readers. Sometimes my readers and my family are the same people, in which case I love them twice as much. Except while driving to Baltimore, in which case everything evens out.

Last week I wrote a column about how affected I was by the death of Mitch Hedberg. But I was affected more when I received over 100 e-mails, calls, IMs, and hugs wishing me comfort and consolation. I got more response to that column than anything I've ever written, probably because it was the first time I really opened up in my column since September 11th.

I wanted to write a little tribute to my readers. And not just my readers, but everyone's readers. Without them, writers wouldn't exist. Some might, but they'd just be those emo kids writing in their live journal hoping someone stumbles on it during a google search.

Writers feed off the knowledge that they're reaching people. With the exception of the two weeks I took off after graduation, I've written at least one column for the last 275 weeks, mainly because I knew people were reading them.

My readers have done some pretty cool things. They've driven hours to see shows, e-mailed me on my birthday, and bugged their student activities directors until they relented and brought me in for a show so that people who had emailed me on my birthday could then drive a few hours to see it.

Many have defended my honor against those who have sent me hatemail, participated in petitions I've supported, and voted for me in awards ceremonies. One particular instance of support was extremely cool: After I wrote a column about how off-putting Jews for Jesus can be, one reader printed out 100 copies of that column and handed it to Jews for Jesus pamphleteers.

My readers aren't always wonderful. When you point out my typos in an unedited work, well, that is annoying. When you correct my small mistakes as if I can go back in time and change my column, well, that is annoying. And when you tell me that you want to stop reading my column because it's not funny anymore but you'll give me a few more chances, well, I unsubscribe you before you get the chance. You'd know that now, but I've already unsubscribed you. But overall, I love you guys. (Said like a drunk man with his arm around friends during last call).

Often I get asked how I come up with 800 new words every single week. For me, it's not coming up with 800 that is the problem - it's limiting myself to 800. Anyone who knows me knows I always have something to say. And you people are kind enough to read it, or at least let it sit in your mailbox and make me think you're reading it.

So, thank you, readers. You make it okay to fight the oil companies and insult the bar jerks and get through life sans posterior. Because I know you're always supporting me, except those of you who I have to occasionally unsubscribe because you were mean to me. But everyone left is really swell.

Last week really was inspiring. It was the most e-mails I'd ever gotten about a column - even more than when I made fun of Fox News. And that made me realize why I do what I do. I write because there are actually people who like it. As I head into the summer after spending another year subsisting on fast food and getting into car accidents, I smile knowing that each week there are even more of you who will defend my honor against hate mail and drive to see a show and send me birthday wishes. But don't do that next week because my birthday is not until September.

Speaking of Fox News, last week they announced that the pope died a full day before he did. In response, CNN just gave Florida to Hillary.

Sorry, I just needed to mock something before I finished. I was getting a little antsy.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I know I'm supposed to be funny here. But it's not every day one of your heroes dies.

When Kurt Cobain shot himself, I was twelve. I wasn't that into music, and grunge didn't capture my angst; my angst involved a date to the seventh grade dance and a social studies test. I didn't understand why so many people were that affected - but now I get it. My Kurt Cobain just happened.

Last night, comedian Mitch Hedberg died in his hotel room. But unlike Cobain, Hedberg didn't kill himself intentionally. Some are saying it was heroin, some a heart attack. But whatever it was, it had to do with Mitch's lifestyle. It was widely known that Hedberg was into drugs. He even had a great joke about it. "I used to do drugs," he'd say. "I still do, but I used to also."

I was drawn to Hedberg immediately when I saw his Comedy Central Presents special years ago. Since then, I followed his career closely. And since then, I became a comic myself. On December 30th of last year, I performed at the Hollywood Improv with Randy Kagan, one of Mitch's openers. Randy invited me to come to Mitch's New Year's Eve show the next night and meet him. Not wanting to break my plans and figuring I'd get the chance again, I turned Randy down. I may have memorized all of his material, but I never met Mitch.

At 1:29 AM last night/yesterday morning, I got an e-mail from a comedian I barely knew telling me that Mitch Hedberg died. I wrote back asking for sources, and praying it was not a terrible April Fool's joke. That's the thing about comedians - we're not allowed to die anywhere near April Fool's or it will take a while for people to know we're not kidding.

Mitch was a fantastic writer. With an off-beat delivery, he wasn't destined for greatness, he was greatness. He was somewhere between a cult figure and a household name - and one or two more TV specials away from comedy legend.

I scoured the web for something about Mitch. No news stories, but a few reputable sources replicating the rumor. I still refused to believe it. By 2:00 AM I was exhausted and upset and figuring I'd find out the truth in the morning. I barely slept.

Mitch had a unique way of twisting the obvious. Jokes about how escalators don't break, they just become stairs. About how people shouldn't rewrite scripts, they should just make copies. And my favorite - about how he doesn't have a girlfriend, he just knows a girl who'd get upset if she heard him say that. Mitch's bizarre perspective, his original pronunciation of words, and his obvious enjoyment of his own set helped him pack auditoriums, and convinced guys like me to listen to him whenever possible.

At 8:00, I got up. Still no news. At 9:00, I called a reputable booker who worked with Mitch, and he confirmed my fears. But I still didn't want to believe. At 10:00, I called the Baltimore Improv, where Mitch was scheduled to perform this weekend. The receptionist said she didn't know. That gave me enough hope to wait two more hours and call back. Another woman said she didn't know either. If the club still thought he was alive the day of the show, then he was alive, right? No. It was finally 9:00 in LA, so I called his management and they gave me the closure I needed. Mitch was dead; The Baltimore Improv was probably just trying to prevent the show from being cancelled while they scrambled for a replacement. Whoever decided they'd keep telling callers that Mitch's death was "still just a rumor" may be a good business man but they could use a lesson in character.

Mitch is my Kurt Cobain, my Jimmy Hendrix, my Janis Joplin, my James Dean. Mitch is someone who cut himself down before we were ready to let him, someone whose brilliance was only matched by his self-destructive nature. Though I always loved his material, I never liked the way he lived. Which was made worse now that it's also the way he died. But I'm not mad at Mitch for leaving us too early. I'm mad at myself for being too stupid to meet one of my heroes while I was still able to. Now I'll never see Mitch's act live, I'll never shake his hand, and I'll never get to thank him for inspiring me. But I can keep him alive by listening to the work he left behind.

One of the interesting things about having dreams is that we often forget who inspired them. Mitch will never know how often he made me laugh or how much he moved me to write. I never knew Mitch Hedberg. But I did know how much Mitch Hedberg stirred me. And that's not something I'll ever forget.

I read this column over to make sure my emotion didn't cloud my words. I worry that I wasn't able to be as concise as Mitch was - simultaneously irreverent and relevant. For it to be a true tribute to Mitch, I should really re-write it before I send it out. Or maybe I'll just make a copy.

We'll miss you, Mitch. I already do.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.