Upsetting Day: Strike It Rich

Strike it Rich! Who doesn't want to do that? Though there's some ambiguity. Two game shows on three-letter networks had that name.

On USA, trivia-loving couples trivia-raced across an arch. An arch of facts. I could talk about that, and keep my soul. It'd be fun! We could do a whole play-by-play thing.

On CBS, they destroyed every Strike It Rich tape in sight. Networks kept lossless blackface musicals, and they purged Strike it Rich. Four tapes survived, likely thanks to brave but misguided firefighters. One's available without a field trip. I could cover that, and die decades before my body catches up.

The core question’s simple: what do I love? The affection between couples? Celebrating knowledge? A carefree world of sunlight and enlightenment?

Or pain?

Tough call, really. Lots of variables.

Strike It Rich lasted two years. Strike it Rich lasted eight years on TV after ten on radio, and plays forevermore in hell. On Strike It Rich, winning couples defended their quiz championship the next week. On Strike It Rich, defeated players were stranded after betting everything on mercy. Strike It Rich got a little lazy with prerecorded prize segments. Strike It Rich got sued by New York’s welfare commissioner.

That settles it. Trivia wins.

Yup, the begging show has trivia too. Trivia for your life. If you forget fun facts, you starve. Good thing memory loves hunger. I think. I'm cutting, and reality's fuzzy.

Though it sounds a touch like Queen For A Day, it's much kinder. While Queen For A Day left you in a crowd's soulless jaws, Strike It Rich lets you struggle before you beg. With a strong mind and clean soul, you can save your family yourself. And the fight's figurative, making it less dangerous than the Roman method. And if that doesn’t work out, you can make your case directly to the Patricans on “The Heartline.”

Wait, that's dishonest. Sorry, my mouth sprints ahead of me sometimes.

Though it sounds like Queen For A Day, it is. Queen For A Day happened twice, unless you count the identical It Could Be You and countless radio shows. Sympathy shows, a.k.a. passive-aggressive coliseums, are local tradition. Like slavery loopholes, weapons of mass innovation, or forgetting how to spell genocide. YouTube’s leech is a nostalgia act–less fresh idiocy, more Steel Panther.

This time, we’ll try the radio version first. I want to understand tragedy erotica’s roots. And I bet it’s more fun if you can’t see guests cry.

On June 1, 1951, four postwar tragedies visited Strike It Rich. Despite getting on radio, their excitement has a plastic quality. Some people don’t appreciate Colgate-Palmolive. Odd, when one brand makes two beauty staples. Your face won’t reach the TV version without them.

Between several thousand of you and I, “the audience with a heart” is why we’re here. “The show with a heart” hurts, but that bit of improv marked my brain. Five words mix branding, pandering, delusion, and self-congratulation. I think it’s the password to the Fourth Circle of Heaven. Everyone that made Strike It Rich went to heaven.

Warren’s voice fits perfectly: he’s half ad voiceover, half that again. Compare the audibly drunk host of Queen For a Day, who sounded gone by the second ad read. Whatever Warren’s on, he only takes one hit before call time. Today’s sins have a professional tone.

First, we learn Colgate-Palmolive sponsors Strike it Rich, and that Strike It Rich is sponsored by Colgate-Palmolive. Then Warren gets into backup branding. Eventually, we learn that our first guest’s granddaughter just died of leukemia. While you can’t see Elizabeth’s tears, her voice holds a certain weight. The host, Warren Hull, approaches Palmolive with the gravity it deserves:

It’s a make-up test! Warren didn’t talk over guests enough last episode, and ran out of time. He’s learned his lesson. Today, guests never reach a comma before Warren adds punch-up, a question they’ve answered, or a request to speak up. It sounds like someone browbeating their imaginary friend.

If you listen closely, you learn that Elizabeth wants a memorial for her granddaughter. In the darkest ritual I’ve covered, she has to dance for it. To be fair to Mammon, the rules scan quickly. First, Warren asks how much charity players want to bet. Contestants need every cent, but can’t afford to lose anything. The wheels turn quickly and loudly. Warren, their newest friend, encourages everyone to bet the farm.

Elizabeth, who frets less about her will these days, plays along. Forget I said that. No one should make dead grandkid jokes in public.

Classy.

Extra classy.

Warren reads like a pushy dealer, but sounds more like a railroading DM. Perhaps his pay scales with drama—he gets tense when guests bet near-nothing. Players start with thirty dollars (around 371 IvankaBucks), and some leave with twenty-nine. The marshmallow test just proves kids like sugar.

For example: the two children Warren browbeats after this.

They’re eighth graders. Warren really wants an on-air flop. Maybe payouts come out of his bonus. Maybe his view of charity’s less Christlike and more Christian. Maybe he knows smiles on Strike It Rich are like cups on Jackass: souls and balls are only broadcast to be crushed.

Cynthia and Emma come from a school with nothing. Strike It Rich likes playing coy, so they say they’re here for “a dishwasher.”

Per hosting tradition, Warren sprints into Creepy Uncle Mode. With some vaudeville wit:

Apologies to vaudeville. Warren explains—and I’m not fucking around–that with their sponsor Vell and lady hands, Cynthia and Emma don’t need a dishwasher. The girls play anyway—some people just can’t be helped—and leave with $250 wasted dollars. Around 3000 today, until the other shoe drops on tariffs.

With the harassment quota filled, there’s room for one more game. Kind of. Warren drags Player Three’s plight out of him in double-time:

Excellent bedside manner. Good news: you’re qualified to host a game show. At this point, two games have ended with some hope and dignity. Well, profit. Comic timing—the one true law of this world—demands one outcome.

My soul’s a thin, weak thing. I love putting a dicky word for memory in a spelling game. While I’d prefer it not shatter a family, I appreciate the game design flourish. At least Samuel’s earned enough to buy dinner for one. Outside of Manhattan. If he can leave–the show is, again, famous for leaving contestants stranded.

Warren finally found his dance partner. And Strike It Rich unveiled its true premise: listening to a heart drift from classic can-do pluck to a budding interest in Marx.

But what if you could watch hope die?

Again, other tapes exist if you have the airfare or untainted search engines. I’m stuck with August 26, 1955. Four years after Samuel’s life didn’t change. I’m excited for an older, mature Strike It Rich. Television adds an entire new sense for storytelling.

And logos.

It gets dense.

You bet there’s a song.

I know sponsors make old media/new scams possible. But there’s barely room onscreen for a show. I came for commerce’s victims, and found the perpetrator breakdancing on the crime scene. Michael Bay’s vending mech’s had more grace. Some soothing Winterfresh flavor took the edge off, but I’m still recovering.

For suffering, Strike It Rich and Queen For A Day are neck-and-neck. For branding, it’s a blowout. Fab’s the Winterfresh of laundry, and I know that because of Strike It Rich. A title referring to the network. Warren beams with pride at the results.

This show looked better on radio.

Two games sneak in between Fab spots. Our first subject’s Nash, a disabled black veteran. But not our first player. Like hell CBS lets darklings on Inspirational TV. Nothing uplifting happens in black America before color. This is Strike It Rich, not Strike It Human, and public sympathy’s a white fountain. First we get Nash’s representative…

…And Fab. The actor plugs his show about the Amish—he’s an exploitation double threat. After a sponsored-sounding chat, we get a photo of someone called Nash. Who is that again? I bet he likes Fab. Sympathetic strings swell despite onscreen negritude, making this 1955’s most progressive show.

Followed by Nash’s plan to Strike it Rich: raising rabbits. The Steinbeck special. It sounds like nonsense, and is. Presumably, Nash would like to work less, or sell Fab indoors. His injury rules out “hard manual labor,” and other jobs won’t reach black America before color. Strike It Rich demands a slick image to justify empathy, driving endless rabbit farms, dishwashers, and orphan-only theme parks.

The show’s formula makes delegation curious. The most generous read of Strike It Rich is revolutionizing laundry. The second’s letting people show their humanity before a very easily influenced crowd. Instead, I learned how an actor’s Mennonite grandma helped him inhabit a role churning butter. Said actor wins $265 (3,200 IvankaBucks), which should keep Nash going long enough to forget this.

Luckily, the second contestant’s more uplifting: a reverend raises 605 dollars (7k IvankaBucks) for a new church after a freak storm. His old camp, built by him on land selected by him, trapped and drowned a few dozen faithful. Now he can start over.

Misery porn’s a helpful expression. On a scale from cosplay gallery to federal crime, Strike It Rich is somewhere around EyeSocketGirls.ru.

For all the cynical, meaningless noise, there’s a little purpose. The darker Earth gets, the more important love becomes. And that’s when your breath matters most. Grab a Winterfresh, and let minty animal passion take you. It keeps hope alive.

Or enjoy some quality TV.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jared Ruiz, who danced in the rain while spelling homophones for this article. Nobody told him to do it, we aren't monsters.

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