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 producers asked me to audition for the show -- you know, for a chance to WIN A MILLION DOLLARS -- I was skeptical.

I knew my chances of winning were very low. I knew that a million dollars after taxes is probably less than I owe in college loans. And I knew that the show preys upon the hopes of marginally talented, socially awkward people. The first few rounds should really be called, "America's got total freaks who think they're awesome. Watch while we crush their dreams." 


After some soul searching ("Am I a freak? Socially awkward?") I had no definitive answers, but I figured they wouldn't have called me if they didn't think I had a shot. I was wrong. 


I'm still not sure if I was a fall guy or if they actually thought I had a chance. I do know that a lot of people who advanced with me to the Celebrity Judges Round were there just so the judges could make fun of them. Some, like the kid who could burp for a long time, knew it. Others, like the "singer" who'd driven all the way from Chicago, did not. 


Despite my cynicism, I foolishly let myself start to believe that maybe, just maybe, I had a legitimate chance. I play a character called 

. He's an over-the-top lounge lizard who 

 based on audience suggestions. As I waited backstage, I heard that the parrot that auditioned before me had passed and was moving on to the show's Las Vegas rounds.


When I finally made it onstage, it felt like the moment in the movie "Gladiator" when the prisoners are shoved onto the Coliseum floor and the light is blindingly bright and suddenly, it's just carnage from all directions. The boos started before I'd finished taking my first step on stage. Two thousand people were angrily screaming and waving and chanting, and I hadn't even opened my mouth. 


As the booing continued, the judges, Howie Mandel and Sharon Osbourne (Piers Morgan's flight was delayed that day) asked a couple of questions before I launched into a song. I don't know if the song was any good because I couldn't hear it over the roar of boos — even though my ears are pretty close to my mouth and I was using a microphone. 


Eventually, the judges hit their "X" buttons: "BWAHHH, BWAAHH!" I quit singing and finally did something smart. I left. 


Usually the judges ask sarcastic questions and belittle you before letting you go, but I just thanked the audience, waved goodbye and left. And I think that's what kept me from getting on TV. Because I left, they didn't get to see the moment where I thought to myself, "Wow, maybe I'm not good." I wish I could say that I'd transcended the moment and that I left to save face, but it was really just that my legs started walking offstage. And who am I to argue with my legs?


Afterward, I talked to my very traumatized girlfriend, who was in the audience (please never mention "America's Got Talent" to her). She explained that the audience had been baited for hours with free t-shirts, camera time and prizes (including free trips to Las Vegas) for the loudest, meanest people. 


I've tried to keep it all in context. Sure, THOSE 2,000 people booed me, but there were free t-shirts on the line! I remind myself of the performances that people do like, the auditions that do go well. 


But a little part of me keeps wondering if maybe I'm deluded and untalented, and if I should just buy a parrot. 

Tom Reed is a Minneapolis actor and comedian who can be seen regularly at the 

 as crooning sensation Lounge-asaurus Rex. By day he is a research analyst at Minnesota Public Radio.

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A chance at national fame and a million bucks can entice even someone who should know better.

When 'America's Got Talent' decides that you don't

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