Come on, get Happy.

I know this may come as a surprise to many of you, but I was a melodramatic kid with dreams of grandeur. In the 80’s, some kids dreamt of superstardom on Star Search or Double Dare. But that was for chumps. I, on the other hand, had plans that would take me through the back door and right up to the main stage – I was going to capture the hearts of America on Bozo the Clown.

But alas, Bozo was clear in Chicago, some far away fantasy land that apparently only granted admittance to idiot children with absolutely no hand-eye coordination, so the next closest thing for those of us growing up in Fort Wayne was Happy the Hobo.

Happy the Hobo was a congenial raggedy gentile who lived in the WFFT Fox 55 studio with his pal Froggy – who in case you’re confused, was a frog who sounded a lot like my mom when she started smoking again and tried to hide it from us. The show aired every weekday after school, and any kid in the broadcast area whose parents loved them made their television debut on Happy the Hobo.

Similar to Bozo, Happy featured games that pitted select audience children against each other. The winner would receive vast prizes and fortune, including Pop Weaver popcorn and Archway cookies.

Also, each kid on the show was “interviewed” by Happy, with some question of the segment, and you had two seconds to give your answer.

Most answers were, by my estimation, lame. Some kids cried. Some were shy and didn’t talk. But more than that was the lucky kid who would be the last one “interviewed” before a commercial break who got to say “We’ll be right back.”

In my five-year-old mind, I NEEDED to be this child.

So when my parents announced we would be going on Happy’s Place, my mind went into overdrive preparing for what was surely going to be my fast track to stardom. I schemed ways that I could get to be the kid to say “We’ll be right back.” I would sing it just like Paula Abdul would. Happy would be so floored by my panache, my “it” factor, and people watching the show would be so taken by this talented and precocious child with the huge white permed fro that stuck five inches off her head, that I would be destined for greatness. It was inevitable.

And so came the day, and I could scarcely contain myself as I sat with the other children in the audience. Happy came out juggling bowling pins and telling jokes, and I made it a point to be AMAZED by every trick, to laugh louder than ANY other kid, to show just how clearly outstanding I was. The time for the interview came, and the featured question was “If you could be any kind of animal, what would you be?”

As we lined up, I gauged how long it would be before a commercial break. I was too close to the front of the line; I knew my turn would come and go before I would even have the chance to say “We’ll be right back”. So I began letting kids in front of me in line, under the guise that I was A.) the benevolent line saint, and B.) very shy.

It’s on tape somewhere, which I think my parents still have if my father didn’t tape Lethal Weapon over it and I didn’t tape N Sync videos over it in junior high, the abnormally tall child in the line, wheeling and dealing on camera letting kids in front of her. Nobody knew my ulterior motive but I was going to tell the world we’d be right back, and I would have ARRIVED.

Then Happy asked me the question. My answer? A fox. I’d like to say my skill for marketing and PR shined even then (the station was called Fox 55), but the truth was I was just sort of obsessed with Fox and the Hound and all the lame kids were saying stupid shit like horses. Horses! PFFT!

And I stood and waited after Happy noted what a great response that was.

And I was motioned to step aside.

That was it. That was my chance. And I blew it on “fox.”

And then he asked the little boy behind me to say “We’ll be right back.”

OH THE DEFEAT. The kid had been picking his nose the whole time and Happy picked HIM? WHAT THE HELL HAPPY?

I proceeded to go cry to my parents, who were in the parental section of the audience off-camera, so very, very disappointed with how things had turned so very much against me.

Maybe because he saw me crying, maybe because I trampled the other children when he asked for a volunteer, but Happy later picked me to be a contestant in the GOOFY GAME-O-RAMA.

THIS was it, guys. THIS was my moment. This would be where I would shine. Would it be throwing your shoes in a pile to see who could pull them out first? Oh I hoped so.

Again, cruel fate turned me to the cold.

Happy pitted me against a huge girl, who, in my mind’s eye, was like, 16, but in all reality was probably like, 8. And the game? Hula hoop contest.

I have a secret confession to make. I can’t hula hoop. I can’t now, and I sure as shit couldn’t when I was 5. I also can’t jump rope – which, contrary to what my middle school gym teacher told me, you CAN get into college and become a successful adult without being able to do, like climbing a rope to the gym ceiling and putting mind over matter on menstrual cramps (whatever, if you’re mad, you’re just mad YOUR mom didn’t write you a note).

But I couldn’t risk giving up my one shot at stardom, since I had blown my interview, so instead of saying simply, “I can’t hula hoop,” I proceeded to hurl the hula hoop around my mid-section and do what wasn’t much unlike seizing. Happy, unfooled by my tomfoolery, kindly escorted me out of the game and picked some other kid to participate. My Achilles heel of competition, and he had found it.

Not long after this embarrassing, shameful turn of events, Happy "retired" and let his cousin, "Happy's cousin," take over the show, a move I never understood. I personally would never let my cousin take over my job; mostly because he's a convicted felon whose claim to fame is that his prison cell is in the same block as Maurice Clarrett's (something any red-blooded Ohioan would be proud of, really), and if he tried to take over my job, he'd probably just work for cigarettes and stab someone in the break room before the day was over. Moral of the story: your cousin shouldn't take over your job.

And really, he's my step-cousin. But anyway.

To this day I can’t hula hoop. I can’t eat Archway cookies without feeling like I didn’t earn them, and I am fully prepared to belt out “We’ll be right back” while doing a full song and dance number. Mr. Hobo, I am ready for my closeup.

No really. Please?