Imagine winning a nationally televised beauty
pageant. The orchestral music swells to this
dramatic crescendo. The host approaches you with
tears in his eyes. And instead of a sparkling
crystal tiara and a dozen pristine red roses,
you are handed a bouquet of rotting vegetables.
Right, just actual compost. And then, to top
it all off, the host reaches down to his belt
and dispenses exactly $1 .98 in loose change
right into your hands. I mean, it is the ultimate
visual gag. You take this incredibly revered
cultural institution, the beauty pageant, and
you completely strip it of all its manufactured
dignity. Welcome to today's Deep Dive. If you're
joining us right now, we are so glad you are
here. Today, you, me, and our resident expert
are cracking open a Wikipedia article about one
of the most bizarre, seemingly inexplicable pieces
of 1970s television history. Yeah, we're looking
at a show called The $1 .98 Beauty Show. Which
is just such a wild concept. It really is. And
it's such a rich subject for us to dig into.
Sometimes the absolute best way to understand
the underlying values and anxieties of a specific
era is to look at exactly what that era chooses
to ruthlessly parody. Absolutely. And in the
late 70s, the traditional beauty pageant was
this monolithic television event. It was treated
with the utmost sincerity. So if you're someone
who loves pulling back the curtain on media,
if you like figuring out how the things you watch
are constructed and the hidden messages they
carry, this deep dive is an absolute gold mine.
That's for sure. Because on its surface, the
$1 .98 beauty show just looks like chaotic, low
budget trash. But as we come through our sources
today, we're going to see how it actually functions.
as a brilliant, highly calculated, multi -layered
satire. It was a very deliberate deconstruction
of television tropes. Well, let's start at the
beginning, because I'm looking at the basic facts
of this production, and it just sounds impossible.
This aired in syndication between September 1978
and September 1980, and the creator and executive
producer was Chuck Baris, the mastermind behind
The Gong Show, operating through Chuck Baris
Productions. The host... was a comedian, Rip
Taylor, and the announcer was Johnny Jacobs.
Yeah, that was the core. But the actual contestants
they put on the stage are what immediately catches
my eye. Oh, it was a wildly eclectic mix, especially
for 1978. To say the least. OK, let's unpack
this, because it sounds like a beauty pageant
held in a funhouse mirror. They had six female
contestants per episode, but they threw out the
entire casting rule book. They really did. They
brought in everyday people, housewives. They
occasionally featured overweight contestants.
And on at least one occasion, they had a male
contestant dressed in drag competing for the
title. alongside women who would actually go
on to become massive figures in the entertainment
industry. Right. You have early appearances by
Sandra Bernhardt, Rhonda Shear, Kitna Tividad,
and actress Teresa Kensell. Such an interesting
group. So you have aspiring Hollywood stars standing
shoulder to shoulder with everyday people and
drag queens. It's like going to a five -star
restaurant being served by a waiter in a tuxedo.
And when he lifts the silver cloche, it's a single
cold french fry. That's a great way to put it.
The joke isn't just the French fry, the joke
is the tuxedo. But wait, I have to ask about
this casting strategy. Was throwing a drag queen
and a future comedian like Sandra Bernhard into
a beauty pageant just a cheap grab for shock
value? Well, shock value was definitely a byproduct,
but the underlying mechanism of the comedy was
much smarter than that. Think about the cultural
weight of the Miss America pageant in 1978. Oh,
yeah. Burt Park singing, There She Is. Exactly.
The contestants fit a very narrow, very strict,
highly policed physical and social mold. I mean,
they were presented as an unattainable standard
of perfection. They were practically royalty
in the eyes of the viewing public. Right. So
by taking this incredibly diverse, completely
unstandardized group of people and presenting
them all on equal footing. Having them compete
for the exact same ridiculous title. The creators
are dismantling that pedestal. They are leveling
the playing field in a way that feels almost
anarchic. When Sandra Bernhardt is competing
against a man in drag for $1 .98, the very concept
of a standardized beauty queen becomes the punchline
before anyone even speaks. OK, that makes sense.
The casting itself is the first layer of the
joke. But looking at the cast list here, the
way they handle their own staff and guests feels
completely backwards. Hell, so. Well, it says
Rip Taylor was the host, but he played it totally
straight, while the announcer, Johnny Jacobs,
cracked all the gyms. Yeah, they swapped the
roles. Which is wild, because if you know anything
about Rip Taylor, he was known as the Prince
of Pandemonium. He was this wild prop -heavy
comedian who threw confetti everywhere. What
was the strategic goal behind putting a famously
chaotic comedian in a suit? and telling him to
act serious. Disorientation. Pure and simple.
When you watch a standard game show or pageant,
there is a very comfortable, predictable rhythm.
Right. The host is the charismatic center. The
announcer is the booming, authoritative voice
of God off camera. Exactly. So by taking the
expected functions of those personnel and entirely
swapping them, Baris created a subtle underlying
sense of unease for the viewer. Like, something's
just slightly off. You're watching it, and your
brain is subconsciously registering that the
format is broken. They are actively messing with
the plumbing of a television show. They are.
And the absolute masterstroke of messing with
that format has to be the celebrity judges. Oh,
the judges. This is the part of the source material
that absolutely blew my mind. They pulled in
a massive roster of real, legitimate stars. Actual
Hollywood royalty. We are talking about legends
like Peter Lawford and Dorothy Lamour, huge athletes
like MVP baseball player Steve Garvey, and football
star Rosie Greier. They had JPMorgan, Jamie Farr
from M. Ash, Patty Andrews, Louis Nye, Marty
Allen, Trini Lopez, and the unknown comic. A
lot of whom were frequent panelists on Barris's
other hit, The Gong Show. But wait, I'm stuck
on this. You book massive celebrities. You fly
out Dorothy Lamour or Steve Garvey. You put them
behind a panel. And the source material explicitly
states they never spoke a single word during
the entire proceedings. Not one word. Not even
to announce the winner. From a production standpoint,
that sounds like a massive waste of money and
honestly, kind of boring TV. Why not just write
them a few jokes and get your money's worth out
of having Peter Lawford in the studio? What's
fascinating here is that the silence is the entire
point of the exercise. In every pageant, in every
reality talent show, the judges are presented
as these supreme arbiters of taste and value.
Right, we are conditioned to hang on their every
word. As if a celebrity's opinion on a ball gown
is somehow empirically true. We treat them like
Supreme Court justices of glamour. Exactly. So
Barris brings out these massive celebrities.
They are introduced with tremendous pomp and
circumstance. The audience applauds. And then
they said they're unblinking. completely useless.
It is a brilliant deconstruction of the expert
panel trope. By silencing people whose voices
and opinions are usually highly valued, the show
is mocking the inherent absurdity of celebrity
judging. So what does this all mean? Were they
just being lazy with the format or was Baris
making a deliberate point to the viewer at home
about how much we blindly worship celebrity opinions?
It was definitely a deliberate point. It's asking
the viewer, why do we care what a baseball player
thinks of a beauty queen in the first place?
OK, so if the judges are entirely useless and
completely silent, how on earth is a winner actually
chosen? What are the actual mechanics of a competition
where the score doesn't matter and the judges
don't speak? Well, the mechanics were designed
to meticulously mimic a real pageant. It was
broken down into three highly structured rounds.
You had round one, which was basic introductions.
Round two was a showcase of their abilities.
I love that the source specifies it was called
an abilities showcase rather than a talent competition.
That feels like a very legally careful choice
of words, given the chaotic nature of the contestants.
It definitely lowers the bar of expectation.
And then inevitably you had round three, which
was the swimsuit competition. But even the swimsuit
competition is a complete parody of the real
thing. Oh, completely. Instead of the reverent
hush tones you hear at the Miss America pageant,
where an announcer is whispering about a contestant's
poise and commitment to world peace, you have
the announcer on this show, Johnny Jacobs, actively
roasting the women. He just tears into them.
Yeah, as Rip Taylor ushers them on stage in their
swimsuits, the announcer is just... hurling comedic
insults at their vital statistics and their hobbies.
Which completely undercuts the traditional objectification
of the swimsuit round. It turns a moment that
is historically supposed to be about silent visual
judgment into a loud, abrasive stand -up comedy
roast. And we really have to look at how the
music elevated this specific cognitive dissonance.
The music is so important here. The bandleader
was Milton DeLugge. And they used the exact same
musicians from the Gone Show Band, just adding
two extra saxophones for the first season to
give it that big, brassy pageant feel. And the
song choices were so deeply ironic. Rip Keeler's
theme was, happy days are here again. And as
the contestants are being roasted, the band is
playing Oh You Beautiful Doll and Inchy Sweet.
Think about the psychological effect of that
on the viewer. Playing a sincere, nostalgic,
almost overly earnest song like Ain't She Sweet
while an announcer is actively insulting a contestant
creates this incredible friction. It's so jarring.
It forces the audience to realize how manipulative
typical television music usually is. When you
watch a real pageant and the soft piano music
plays to make you feel emotional, it's a parlor
trick. Barris was exposing the trick by pairing
the soft music with the harsh reality of a roast.
He is showing us the strings on the puppets.
And speaking of strings, the ultimate parlor
trick of any pageant is the suspense of who will
win. The hushed silence, the envelope opening.
But the source material reveals that the outcome
of the $1 .98 beauty show was entirely pre -arranged.
It was completely rigged. From the very beginning,
the silent judge sitting nearest to Rip Taylor
would simply hold up an envelope containing the
preselected winner's name and Taylor would take
it. No deliberation, no scoring system, just
a prop envelope handed over in silence. And it
wasn't even a secret. Right. It's not like there
was some massive backstage scandal that got leaked
years later. If you were watching, the announcer
literally told you it was rigged right in the
opening monologue. And if you somehow missed
that, It was printed explicitly in the fine print
of the closing credits. Why broadcast your own
lack of integrity, though? Because that transparency
is the ultimate weapon of the satire. Put yourself
in the shoes of a viewer in 1978. OK. You're
watching this show tell you, to your face, that
the winner is predetermined and the tension is
fake. The next night, you turn into a highly
polished, multi -million dollar pageant. Oh,
wow. It forces you to ask, how authentic are
the tears and the tension on those real shows?
If Chuck Barris can manufacture a winner and
tell me about it, what are the big networks doing
behind closed doors? Here's where it gets really
interesting. It makes the viewer complicit in
the joke. Which brings us to the grand finale,
the crowning moment. Where Rip Taylor does his
best Burt Parks impression and serenades the
winner. It's like they were giving away the magician's
secrets on live television. Because instead of
that crystal tiara and a college scholarship,
the $1 .98 beauty of the week gets a tacky plastic
crown. And that infamous bouquet of rotten vegetables,
cabbage, wilted carrots, just absolute compost.
Giving the winner rotten vegetables instead of
roses is the ultimate punctuation mark on the
joke. And the titular prize, $1 .98 in cash,
dispensed directly from a metal coin holder attached
to Rip Taylor's belt. He just clicks out the
quarters and dimes into her hand. It is such
a profound statement. It's saying, look at the
absolute indignity of what you just put yourself
through for the camera. Look at this whole song
and dance and realize that this is what your
dignity is actually worth to the people making
the show. It is a devastatingly accurate critique
of the transactional nature of game shows, and
it predates modern reality television by decades.
Yeah, way ahead of its time. It exposed the core
truth that television networks use everyday people
for cheap entertainment and offer them pennies
in return compared to the ad revenue generated.
So you have this show. It is incredibly subversive.
It is handing out literal trash as a prize. It
is actively mocking the very medium it exists
on and the people watching it. You would assume
a show that hostile, handing out rotten vegetables
would bomb in the ratings and get canceled by
angry network executives after three weeks. You
would certainly think so, but the reality is
the exact opposite. It was a massive hit. Yeah.
RipTailer reported that the show was highly successful
in syndication. It actually became the number
three syndicated show in the entire country.
Number three, we really need to pause and contextualize
that. In the late 1970s, before cable television
fragmented the audience into thousands of tiny
niches, network and syndicated television reached
tens of millions of people a night. That is a
huge audience. For a low budget, deeply cynical
satire to capture the number three spot nationwide
is staggering. It proves that a massive segment
of the audience was incredibly hungry for something
that broke the rules. They were tired of the
plastic perfection of the era and wanted a show
that let them in on the joke. They wanted the
funhouse mirror. But then, it just ends. September
1980, it is over. and the cancellation was incredibly
abrupt. Extremely abrupt. But here's the craziest
part of the whole thing. It wasn't the network
that pulled the plug. It wasn't declining ratings.
The cancellation was ordered by Chuck Baris himself.
If we connect this to the bigger picture, this
is where the story of the $1 .98 beauty show
transitions from a master class in media satire
into a very human, almost tragicomic study of
creator psychology. It's the party anecdote.
According to Rip Taylor, The end came because
Chuck Barris was at a social gathering one night.
At the time, Barris had an unbelievable 17 hours
of programming airing every single week on television
between all his different game shows. And an
insane amount of output. And someone at this
party casually walked up to him and remarked,
gee, he has a lot of trash on the air. Referring,
of course, to shows like The Gong Show and The
$1 .98 Beauty Show. Right. And Barris, upon hearing
his work called trash, became furious. He declared
right then and there, I'll take it all off the
air. And he did. He literally pulled the plug
on his own hit show. Just like that. over one
comment at a party. It speaks volumes about the
extreme vulnerability of creators to criticism,
even when they are wildly financially successful.
It really does. Barris was a complex figure.
He orchestrated this commercially successful,
deeply subversive hit. He intentionally designed
a show that was supposed to look like trash in
order to mock the very concept of trash television.
Right, the cheap aesthetic was the medium for
his message. But when a single offhand comment
at a party took the aesthetic literally, essentially
completely missing the satire, it devastated
him. Think about the irony of that for a second.
You create a show that actively makes fun of
trash TV. You hand out rotten cabbages. You dispense
$1 .98 from a belt. Your audience loves it so
much it becomes the third most popular show in
the country. Yeah. And you kill it because someone
calls it exactly what you designed it to look
like. Who really gets to define what has value
in media? Is it the creator who embeds the hidden
meaning, the millions of audience members who
enjoy it, or the one snobby critic at a cocktail
party? It is a textbook clash between creator
intent and public perception. Barris built a
funhouse mirror to show society its own ridiculous
reflection. But when society looked into that
mirror and simply called the mirror itself ugly,
Barris couldn't handle it. He just couldn't take
it. So he smashed the glass. Wow. He smashed
the glass. He literally took his ball and went
home. It's wild to think about an era of television
where a single executive producer had the unilateral
unchecked power to just erase a top rated nationally
syndicated show on a whim because his feelings
got hurt. No focus groups, no massive corporate
committees to stop him. Just one angry guy at
a party. It certainly highlights the chaotic
personality driven nature of television production
in the 70s. So as we wrap up this deep dive,
I want to make sure we really synthesize the
journey we've just been on. The $1 .98 beauty
show was so much more than low budget. late night
filler. Absolutely. From the deliberate casting
of diverse contestants that shattered the era's
narrow beauty standards to the silencing of massive
Hollywood celebrities to mock the idea of expert
opinions to the transparently rigged outcomes
and the literal rotten prizes. This wasn't just
a game show. It was a highly orchestrated, cynical,
and frankly brilliant piece of performance art.
And it leaves us with an incredibly relevant
lens for consuming media today. When you turn
on your TV tonight and flip through modern reality
television, you know, the glamorous dating shows.
the intense cooking competitions, heavily edited
lifestyle programs. You really have to ask yourself
a critical question. Which of these shows are
secretly laughing at their audience and which
ones are laughing with them? The $1 .98 beauty
show is unique because it winked at the viewer
the entire time, inviting them to sit on the
couch and laugh at the absurdity of the television
machine together. It makes you evaluate every
shiny, polished competition show through a totally
different filter. And I want to leave you with
one final thought to mull over, building on the
cast list we discussed earlier. OK. Think back
to that incredibly eclectic contestant lineup,
specifically the inclusion of people who would
go on to be highly respected influential entertainers
like Sandra Bernhardt. We are culturally conditioned
to view early, embarrassing appearances on bizarre
game shows as desperate stepping stones for struggling
actors. Right. We pity them for having to endure
it. But considering how layered How intelligent
and how deeply self -aware the satire of the
$1 .98 beauty show actually was. Could it be
that we have it all wrong? Oh, I see. What if
participating in intentional, televised trash
wasn't a mark of desperation at all? What if
it was actually a savvy, calculated move for
performers who were smart enough to realize that
sometimes the quickest way to the top of an absurd
industry is to be the one holding the bouquet
of rotting vegetables, fully in on the joke?
That's a great point. If the fairy tale of television
is a lie anyway, you might as well take the $1
.98 and have a good laugh.