![Wheel](https://c2.staticflickr.com/8/7035/6625162461_15b6031e87_b.jpg) ![Divider](https://i.imgur.com/r8b2E7h.png) Wring a ling ding ding a single octave jingle tracks the swathe of camera one attacking centre stage in aid of echoless clapping and the captain our captain peeps out his mouse hole, with smooth reiteration from his mouth h*** about the weather down in Iowa where three of five delighted guests all hail from incidentally, and isn’t that the most relaxing way of revving up this neon maelstrom into a calamitous bargain bucket charging only flakes of epidermal anonymity per spin. Rigging beams down saturated light elucidating bright chromatic blur between encircled flesh and royal purple set design, as an ovulating data analyst sounds off the first kalashnikov clatter into triple digit territory then a second contestant etcetera until every tallied circle validates a finalist whose prophesied arrival activates the crux of their observers’ hateful dissonance. The jingle lowers pitch and adds a seventh indicating network currency at stake then during the commercial break deserted lecterns fall beneath a metamorphic outburst of this consequential gameplay; colour palettes fixate on their quintessential tone to splash against the walls of living rooms in which the final klaxon signalling defeat commands relief and empty handed homebound non-anomalies face warm obliteration from the next half hour segment. ![Divider](https://i.imgur.com/CVGBX5z.png)@lazarus-wist![Divider2](https://i.imgur.com/r8b2E7h.png)_{Another oldie today; this one, I seem to recall,
written after watching one too many game shows
while in bed with a fever...}![Divider 3](https://i.imgur.com/iw4cpCE.png)_{[Image](https://www.flickr.com/photos/10710442@N08/6625162461)}