I tried out for Big Brother, and I'm not from Las Vegas

I warn you now, we're all going to have to drink heavily to forget the story I'm about to tell you. I mean, admit to.

Drum roll, please....oh, forget it.

I tried out for Big Brother XXXXIV. I don't know why. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Until I saw the people in line. The application asked, "What have you done that you're most ashamed of?" I wrote, "Apply for this job."

An acquaintance who used to work for Fear Factor once said that part of his job was assigning new job titles to the female contestants, who were all Las Vegas prostitutes. Like, they'd become Dancer, or Massage Therapist. I thought, how funny, but it must be an exaggeration. Well, the two women next to me in line were both from Las Vegas. One was a dancer, the other a massage therapist. It's rather an odd feeling, when one suddenly realizes one's competing with whores for a job. Not golden-hearted whores like in "Leaving Las Vegas," or "Dying in Las Vegas," or whatever that Nicholas Cage movie was, but 'Garbled-Psuedo-Japanese-Mantra-Chanting-Won't-Shut-Up- Chain-Smoking-Freak-Whores.'

They asked me how much the job paid, and if it was full-time. "We've only seen it once," they said. I'd never seen it, but somehow, I became a fountain of wisdom for all the people surrounding me. Even the guys were from Las Vegas.

When I finally got to the Price is Right stage and was up in front of the red curtain where they interview you for two minutes, they affixed something that I thought was an electrode to my shirt, but it turned out to be a microphone. Then they asked me my job.

"Itinerant database programmer."

The two interviewers exchanged glances. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, Perl scripting, Mysql, Unix..."

They were silent. Then, "We don't understand what you're talking about."

"Can I have another question, please?"

"Are you competitive?"

"No, not at all."

"What would you dislike most about being in a house full of strangers?"

"Well, I hate melodrama. I'd hate to be sucked into any arguments or anything like that. But I'd bring a book, and just read, if that happened."

Afterwards, I looked up the contestant profile, and realized I didn't fit.

Oh well. You can't imagine how disgusting I felt afterwards. I thought it would be a lark, but if I were Catholic, I would have gone for confession. As it is, it took almost a full week before I could even tell anyone about it.