Now Camelot Magazine is proud to present an article from 1992 by Pulitzer Prize owner Jonathan Niedermeyer.
I was watching this program, SNL, and I watch it every day. I record the episodes on my VHS recording device that I own, and I rewatch it over and over again. I do this for my reasons. My wife left me a few weeks ago 'cause she said, "Jon, if you do that one more time, I'm going to leave you,"
I said "Leave. You're not as important as this is."
So she left. She broke my heart. I cried for days and days, in this unblinking world I blinked, and I lost everything. But I had to, you see. I had to continue to watch the Saturday Night Live each and every day, even when it was not Saturday, erroneous as that might be to the title, and I apologize to you, Lorne Michaels, for doing such terrible things, but the thought was, and it still is in my mind, strong and powerful. It was the weeks ago that I saw it, this first instance, and I had never seen this before. I had assumed it was a game show. They have contestants on and a host, and a set much like a game show set, and I said, "Okay, clearly this is a new game show I have never heard of or seen before. Odd, because I am an expert in game shows and know all of them. A game show must have slipped by me in the secret. How clever for this game show to sneak by me. I shall sit back and watch it with rapt attention."
But as I watched it, noticing the answers were not of the conventional answers, but of odd, mysterious answers that befit no rational thought, I had come to realize something horrific but enthrilling. I was treduped by this comedy show. This was not a new game show, but a sketch mocking the very foundations of the game show. It was then that I had to experience it all, this new and wondrous idea of mockery of game shows. I shall know the SNL cast members more than I knew me. At times, I thought I was the entirety of the various SNL cast. I thought I had split. It was very hard to be split into several different bodies, walking around, experiencing it, but I had maintained true. My wife was, of course, unproductive. She yelled at me and claimed that I had fallen off the wagon. Of course I had. I had seen the face of God in 30 Rockefeller Center. I knew it all too well.
It was soon after this that we lost track for a wile of Jonathan Niedermeyer. We suspect he was somewhere in the Andes, carving out existence as a cult leader.