I am a god at quiz shows.

No, I mean it. A god. I can kick anyone’s ass, anytime, at any… I am a god at quiz shows.

No, I mean it. A god. I can kick anyone’s ass, anytime, at any televised game show. I am the strongest link. Survey says I know every piece of worthless minutia (such as how to spell “minutia”), and that’s my final answer.

I cut my teeth, as a wee nerd, against my dad. It’s always been our after-dinner ritual to turn on the tube and flex our muscles in the form of a question with Alex Trebek, that sexy bitch.

In high school, I found my nerdy niche in Miss Carroll’s after-school club, the Academic Competition Team. It was just as bad as it sounds, and I loved every second of it.

Miss Carroll was the detention queen of the school, known for calling just about anybody out on any technicality, and she was universally hated and feared by everyone at dear old Kennett High. My fellow dorks and I voluntarily spent hours after school in her ground-floor dungeon of a classroom, all for the privilege of outsmarting one another.

We routinely turned in smashing performances, but no one knew who we were. We didn’t have boosters or uniforms or bake sales or fans. We were just dweebs, toiling in obscurity and living for the pure adrenaline rush that comes with being first to hit the buzzer and chime in with “deoxyribonucleic acid,” for 100 points.

This was one venue where my quiz-show acumen, rather than being scoffed at, was encouraged and appreciated. Most of the elite team members got to be where they were just like I did, and we had to break ourselves of the habit of answering in the form of a question.

A few years after my glory days on the Dream Team, I was sitting in a refined South Oakland establishment early on a Friday evening, and what should appear on the television but “Jeopardy!”

“I’ll take on anyone in this bar!”

My compadres’ skepticism was obvious in their rolling eyes. They acted like they weren’t with me. Oh, they of little faith.

I dominated. I was a crushing juggernaut, a force no one expected to see that day.

One thoughtful, impressed pal decided my glorious talents were being wasted on the beery denizens of Denny’s Bar, and entered my name and phone number on the “Jeopardy!” Web site.

He told me about it later, and I really thought nothing of it.

Nothing, that is, until that fateful morning Bob called me.

“Well hello, I have good news for you! You’ve been randomly selected from our Web site to try out for “Jeopardy!” A space has been reserved for you at our next tryout session in Philadelphia. Can you make it?”

Damn right I can. That tryout could’ve been in Timbuktu. I was going.

“First you’ll take a written qualifying exam, then, if you pass, you’ll take a videotaped screen test and be entered into our contestant pool. Dress for television, and good luck!”

I was going to be on television. I was going to make history. Think of the parties! Think of the money! Think of the groupies! My dazzling command of esoterica was finally going to be witnessed by the world. About damn time.

You’ll have to watch Jeopardy for the rest of your life to find out if Melissa Meinzer got on. No one better try absconding with her rad, blue Jeopardy pen, because she’ll know. E-mail her at [email protected].