Upsetting Day: Queen for a Day

This show’s coming back. Granted, nothing’s rumored or announced. And it’ll need a new name once the Department of Magic kills the public domain. Yet “Competitive Ad-Driven Misery” fits right in. Pro-begging was born for DraftKings. Some grifters flirted with a remake, but mold had better margins. We’ll get there. Animal life ends in crabs, intelligent life ends in fire, and America ends in Queen for a Day.

It’s ahead of its time. Like a dead canary.

The premise is dirt simple. Four women describe misery ranging from cancer to cancer. Live cheers measure their cancer, until the host–another cancer–dubs the canceriest player QUEEN FOR A DAY! The queen gets free appliances, and the others get don’t worry about it.

What keeps pandering and good teeth from taking over? Nothing. That’s half the game. But no amount of stagecraft beats a good tumor.

Like all daemons, Queen for a Day never dies for long. It spawned on radio in 1945, filling the postwar tragedy vacancy. In 1956 it thrived on TV despite every living critic. Then Gollum tripped into magma, banishing Queen For A Day for five years. The first reboot died quickly, for reasons I’ll explain on a slow week. The 2004 reboot died faster, thanks to host Mo’nique’s anti-charm. Her best work.

We’re here for the first TV edition. A fifties hit, like most American problems. If you like your elders, don’t mention Queen For a Day. At best, it’s their kill switch. They’ll put you down before the virus spreads again. At worst, it’s like asking which side of the hose they stood on.

I’m not saying enjoying Queen For a Day makes gram-gram evil. I’m typing it. Queen For A Day fans serve The Beast. It’s almost worse than a hood. Bigots can blame education, trauma, desperation, a thwack on the head, half-assed Reconstruction, The Shade Room, op-ed deadlines, endless sexual failure despite your dad’s sweet diamond mine, or Shade Room comments. Queen for a Day fandom comes from innate evil.

I’m late to this one. For reality tv, Queen for a Day was as influential as fleas on boats. Parodies litter old comedies, a theater pastiche ran in 2012, and you can hear the theme song when a child cries. Queen for a Day also buried a few careers, most notably actress/fashion presenter/event planner of hell, Jeanne Cagney. More on that later. As for my delayed reaction, think back to middle school. At first, you’re a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed patriot. Then, while searching for crumbs of nudity, you find Dresden in Pictures, 1945. In color. With nudity. I’m reliving that.

Maybe you’ll like it more. Here’s an episode.

The man shouting above, Jack Bailey, is a lifer. He hosted Queen for a Day on three networks and one self-parody film. You’d expect ten years of funeral barking to twist someone, and yup. Your instincts grow strong. When I fall, the sword is yours.

He starts with egg jokes.

Cue catchphrase, sequel egg jokes, and matching egg joke apologies. The timeless set with more savior lines than lines. Audiences call it “flailing.” Jack calls it rent. He knows the price of Demerol in eggs.

Then we meet Player One, Irma Franklin.

But not quite: Jack’s questions come in rapid waves, cutting off prior answers. Joke setups begin and then shift into more questions. Think two cross-examinations by one person.

I’m torn on Jack. Is there a right way to host this? Better bedside manners sound like false hope. Maybe I’d love Jack if fate gave him the cue cards for truthiness or wrestler intros. It doesn’t matter. Jack Bailey improvises jokes during tributes to The Little Matchstick Girl. And reminds each guest, charming as can be, that she can’t cry. This is a fun show. Be fun. Talk about eggs.

Irma complies. We learn she packages eggs, wants a stool to make that easier on her spine, and her husband’s been disabled for ten years. Survival takes constant toil. She’s held more eggs than there are stars.

Before she expands on that sorrow, Jack’s on to Player Two.

Lilian’s nervous. Figuratively and literally shaken. Fair for a fiddle contest with Scratch, but Jack chides her for killing the vibe. Luckily, he has a joke for every sentence she starts. You’ve seen/endured/botched dates like that, save the part where her son had open heart surgery in February. How’d it go? She’s on Queen for a Day. She wants a record player so that her son can dance the pain away.

Comparing two tragedies would be cruel, so Player Three steps in. The third of anything is funny, I hope. I’ve bet a lot on it. Just like Doris, who sheepishly mentions her five children. Wait, that’s more than three. Almost twice the hunger! She must really want this washing machine. Her husband’s a minister, but the church seems content to leave it to Queen for a Day. If she wins it’s providence. If she loses, a test.

Doris wants an intercom system, to restore order in the home and Increase Egg. Jack nods through it. Selfishly, she also wants an electric cart, to help her and the children gather Increased Egg. Jack nods through that too.

Then Jack hones in on Doris marrying her old schoolteacher, and implies she went for a M.R.S. in algebra class. Or, as he puts it, “to get out of school, you married the teacher didn't you.” It’s hard to be grosser than her situation, but well-played. This tangent pushes the interview late, and he hustles her off to join the other supplicants.

It’s the third time. Jack has, years into this, no sense of time. He runs every guest off stage mid-anecdote, cutting off something to the effect of “Happy families are all—”

Doris joins the other contestants, freeing us for more ads. And the finale. But…there’s an empty seat. A void in the format. Unfulfilled suffering.

If you’ve watched enough punching, you know what happens next.

Meet Pravi: don’t let Jack’s barrage of fat jokes fool you: she’s a born champion. She’s even closer to crying than the others, because she knows what it takes to win.

I didn’t make that up. Pravi’s daughter wants to try that happiness stuff from movies, and bring her whole ward along. At least that’s her story. It’s hard to test details while Jack hunts for crowd work material. I think a luau with all of Pacific State Hospital is more than enough, but I’m a minimalist.

Pravi takes her seat next to the defeated. They’re still stuck playing through the last inning: a live weighing of the soul. I shot for hyperbole, but a giant needle points at their worth.

While audience applause measures your pain, history’s first clipart measures audience applause. Jack reminds the audience that only applause counts. Cheers, jeers, and sobs are wasted effort. Potentially a DQ.

As they said back then: get good. A disabled husband gets you 3.5. Lilian’s fading son earns a hard 8, while five shivering children net 5.5. That’s 1.1 points per malpractice-free child, for anyone planning their family around the circus. I’ll have more tips for you later. For now, know that the Pravi method gets you a 9.5 on the agonymeter.

Rejoice.

Holy shit is this show branded. The sponsors outnumber the living. They hardly go–

four seconds without–

a full length ad.

The eggs leave for themes like hairdressers and harassment. But even gimmicks are optional–some episodes simply let despair speak. Between puns.

The previous sample was a runaway game. Now it’s time for SORROWMANIA. Meet our most excited players yet:

You know, relatively. Look at the first table, they’re already dead.

This round, I’ll help you follow along and place your own bets. I hear clarity is nice for comedy, and know gambling is the heart of Americana. So here’s a quick overview of the Queen for a Day meta, based on the sane number of episodes I’ve watched. This format’s more associated with Overwatch reskins and bicep curls than charity, but Queen for a Day demands innovation.

Got it? Let’s play.

Jack likes Queen One’s big smile and dimples. Her eyes stay on the meager prize, so that goes unchallenged. With Ohtani precision, she describes her own penury without a sniffle. She wants a washing machine, to open a laundromat and dig her way out of debt. Shame she’s poor without a doctor’s note. We’re in bootstrap country. Still, Jack digs her stiff upper lip as she describes her backup fantasy of owning spare tires.

Queen Two comes in with weak fundamentals—Carol’s nearly bawling before Jack’s first snipe. Despite this fumble, she explains that her son’s brain tumor survived two operations. The aftermath “slowed him down.” Jack riffs on her accent. After Queen Two, I paused for a bit. To get more refreshments, for this amazing game.

Queen Three has another rough start–she’s been divorced, and Jack can’t work with that. Then Clarice has a rough middle, replying to Jack’s playful gripes about her frown and grip with “I’m nervous.” Before her heart episode can turn into an attack, Clarice requests 1950’s best wheelchair for her brother. Ne'er-do-wells shot him ten times while hunting someone else. Beautiful reversal.

But we’re not done—Queen Four comes in hot with a hollow smile. Before Beverly says a word, you know God uses her for target practice. She lets Jack shit on Oregon for a bit before explaining her royal wish. Both Beverly and her husband work hard–like proper strivers–but the five kids God wanted cost money. She’d like “a big hole in the ceiling,” so that meager heat can reach all five. Or to jump, but I don’t like to assume.

Take your time, betting’s tough on your phone. The bookie gets your SSN and full text history before you finish your profile. They try not to judge, but they think you should break up. You deserve more.

The human dignity fandom might not like gamifying human misery. But Queen for a Day’s a game show. It’s already more of a game than any live service. Save dignity for a species that fights for it.

Ready?

Hmm, Clarice looks pretty happy. And the other three got meat slicers. Even if they still can’t afford protein, it’s a nice conversation piece. Maybe I’ll rethink this show.

I’ve been too negative. From another perch, gonzo misery porn isn’t so bad. Queen for a Day let free enterprise give back to the morlocks. Four seconds of charity justify an hour of competitive groveling. The queens enjoyed our owner’s finest scraps, and Hollywood made premium gruel. I can’t wait for Hulu’s Empress for an Attosecond.

Rejoice!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Matt Reiley, the onlLIFE IS JUST LIKE AN EGG, FOLKS. SOMETIMES IT BREAKS, BUT WHEN IT DOESN'T, OH DOES IT NOURISH US ALL!

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