Get-rich-quick scheme will get them every time

I make it a rule to respond to any contest that tells me I “may already be a winner” of a “cool million dollars” or more.

I do tend to hesitate a while before sending in my Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes entry, knowing that Ed McMahon will not send me a dime if I do. But then I look at his happy face on the entry form and I am reminded of that booming guffaw he uses whenever Johnny Carson cracks a joke, and I think: “Get a life, Ed.”

Then I send in my entry. If I don’t, I’ll probably get a nasty letter from him that begins: “Mr. Weber, you may already be a weiner.”

So when I heard recently about a new way to win a million dollars just by making a few phone calls and answering a few simple trivia questions, I decided to try my luck.

It’s called “The Game,” and is touted as a “first-of-its-kind telephone game for adults.” Simply by being the first person to answer one question correctly in each of seven rounds of play, the ad says, I could win the “cool million.” The game can be played 24 hours a day by anyone with a touch-tone phone and $2.99 for the first call. Winners continue playing toll-free, and a new millionaire is created “every second Sunday.”

The organizers say that part of the proceeds is used to fund space research and education.

Before dialing the 1-900 number that will start me on the road to riches, however, I browse through the publicity material to get an idea of the questions. I will have only an instant to punch in the correct numerical answer on my phone. What if my mind goes blank? It’s happened before.

I am relieved to learn that the game uses only questions “that every American should know,” questions such as “How many letters in the word Mississippi?” I’m an American, but I’ll admit to counting on every finger and one toe. I write “Mississippi: 11” on a cheat sheet.

“How many keys are on a piano?” is another. I ask a fellow American sitting near me and am told it is 88. I write it down.

“What year did Columbus sail for America?” is also mentioned. I recognize it immediately as a trick question. Columbus arrived in 1492, as every American should know. But if he was getting a mileage reimbursement from the Queen, he might have drifted around for a year. I write “1491” on my cheat sheet.

Then I dial.

“Welcome to The Game,” says a cheerful, recorded game-show voice. A fanfare of trumpets wells up on the line as the voice tells me I am on “a direct line to the American dream.” Then the voice asks me to hold while I am linked to the nine other callers who will play against me.

To make the game more interesting, I picture one opponent in my mind. I choose Donald Trump, who was recently dropped from the Forbes list of richest people. God knows he could use a cool million right now. I envision The Donald ripping pages from his book, “The Art of the Deal,” and throwing them into the fireplace to keep warm. There’s a good chance he’ll play the game.

“Here’s your question…” the voice says as my fingers hover over the phone buttons. My brain clicks into trivia mode. Go ahead, I say. Hit me. “…How many teaspoons are there in three tablespoons?”

Unfair! That is definitely not an American question. The only numbers I can think of are 11, 88, and 1491. Frantically, I turn to my co-workers and shout: “How many teaspoons in three tablespoons?”

Seconds pass. I imagine The Donald sitting at the phone, a dirty silk tie hanging loosely around his neck, his jowels unshaven, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Hey, Marla,” I hear him scream into the other room. “How many teaspoons in three tablespoons?” But Marla Maples, lounging in her size-5 No Excuses jeans, leaps into a snit.

“Donald,” she yelps, tossing her yellow mane. “You know I’m busy trying to clean up the planet right now. I’d rather not clog my mind with…”

“Nine,” my co-worker shouts. I bang the number on my phone.

“Congratulations,” says the game-show voice, which tells me I’m now in the semifinals. I am given a toll-free number and “secret, two-digit code” to call that evening.

I dial and hear the trumpets again. They inspire me — a semifinalist, a Trump beater. The voice instructs me to hold while the computer rounds up my opponents. The trumpets soar; my mind drifts. I’m pumped up. I’m Rocky, slamming my fists into raw beef. A minute passes. “Yo, Donald,” I say smugly to myself. “I’ll slip you a five when I’m rich. Go hug a tree. A maple.”

The game-show voice is back: “The mythical creature, the Cyclops, had how many eyes?”

My stunned brain grinds and chugs, going nowhere. I envision mythical beasts with 88 eyes, dragons in eyeglasses, but no Cyclops. Then I see it — one big eye in the middle of the forehead. I hit the button.

“Unfortunately,” the voice says glumly, “another caller had an answer faster or closer than yours.”

That’s it? No more trumpets? No “cool million?” No “direct line to the American dream?” I hang up the phone dejectedly and think of The Donald, who also dreamed big and lost. Except for his blond bimbo with the new green conscience, maybe we’re really not so different after all.