Trivia night is supposed to be fun—a mix of cold beer, obscure facts, and a chance to prove that all those hours watching documentaries weren’t a total waste. For me, it’s the perfect midweek pick-me-up.
That is, unless someone like Greg shows up.
Greg isn’t his real name, but let’s call him that.
Every trivia night regular knows a Greg—the self-appointed trivia guru who treats every question like a personal IQ test and every wrong answer like a national embarrassment.
“Really?” he scoffed, loud enough for half the bar to hear. “The question literally said Greek mythology. Why would you answer ‘Thor’? He’s Norse! Come on, people!”
His laugh echoed across the room, and I glanced at my friend Sam, who was already rolling his eyes. “Here we go,” Sam muttered, scribbling an answer on our sheet.
Greg wasn’t on our team, thankfully, but his table was next to ours, and his voice carried like a megaphone.
His team didn’t seem to mind—or maybe they’d just resigned themselves to enduring his commentary.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Sam. “Every trivia night has its Greg. He’ll crash and burn eventually.”
Sam grinned. “You think?”
“I know,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.
Because if there’s one thing about people like Greg, it’s that their mouths move faster than their brains.
The Smug Encyclopedia
It didn’t take long for Greg to find his rhythm. By the second round, he’d already established himself as the bar’s resident expert on everything.
“What’s the largest desert in the world? Oh, come on, it’s Antarctica. Everyone knows that!” he boomed, despite the fact that no one had asked for his input.
Our team—The Brain Teasers—focused on our answer sheet, trying to block him out.
The quizmaster’s voice crackled over the speakers, announcing the next question: “Which artist painted the Mona Lisa?”
Greg didn’t even wait for his team to discuss. “Leonardo da Vinci,” he said loudly, as if daring someone to challenge him.
One of his teammates—an older woman with a kind face—nodded hesitantly. “Yes, but let’s write it down quietly, okay?”
“Why?” Greg said, grinning. “It’s not like anyone else has a chance.”
Across the bar, someone groaned. I caught the quizmaster giving Greg a pointed look before continuing to the next question.
By the time the scores were read out after Round Two, Greg’s team, “Brain Trust,” was in first place.
Greg looked smug as ever, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “See? It’s not that hard when you know what you’re doing.”
Sam nudged me. “How long do you think this will last?”
“Not long,” I whispered, smirking.
Overconfidence Brews Trouble
Round Three brought more obscure questions, the kind that separated casual players from the true trivia buffs.
One question asked about a rare marsupial, and another involved an ancient Babylonian king.
Our team held steady, working together quietly, while Greg’s boisterous voice continued to dominate the room.
“What’s the point of trivia,” Greg announced, “if you’re just guessing? Like, read a book, people.”
By now, the entire bar was shooting him looks, but Greg was oblivious. His team, however, wasn’t.
The kind-faced woman who had nodded earlier now seemed to be shrinking into her seat. Another teammate stared pointedly at the quizmaster, as if silently pleading for deliverance.
The next question arrived: “What is the name of the ship in Moby-Dick?”
“Easy!” Greg said, slamming his hand on the table. “It’s the Pequod! See? I told you guys I’m unstoppable.”
Sam raised an eyebrow at me. “Is he always like this?”
“I’m guessing worse,” I whispered.
But Greg’s downfall began with the next question—a seemingly innocuous query about an obscure 1970s sitcom.
The question asked which actor starred in the short-lived series Quark, a deep-cut bit of trivia that stumped most of the bar.
Greg, of course, announced, “It’s obviously Richard Benjamin,” before adding, “But who cares? It’s such a dumb question anyway.”
Except… he was wrong.
The quizmaster revealed the answer—Tim Thomerson—and for the first time that night, Greg faltered.
His teammates exchanged glances, though no one dared to point it out.
But Greg recovered quickly, laughing it off. “Well, you can’t win them all. Still, no one else probably got that, so we’re fine.”
The atmosphere in the bar shifted slightly.
A few more heads turned toward Greg’s table, waiting for what he might say—or do—next.
And when Round Four arrived, bringing the high-stakes, double-points questions, it became clear that Greg’s loud, overconfident act was about to face a reckoning.
Hubris Meets Its Match
The air in the bar was electric as the quizmaster announced the final, double-point question. “This is it, folks,” he said, tapping the microphone for dramatic effect. “The question that will determine tonight’s trivia champions. No pressure.”
Greg leaned back in his chair, exuding a confidence so thick you could slice it with a knife. His team, however, looked far less comfortable.
The cracks in their unity were showing—subtle glances, crossed arms, and the kind of silence that suggested they were rethinking life choices.
The question flashed onto the screen:
What was the first product ever sold by Apple?
Greg smirked. “Oh, come on,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “This is child’s play.” He scribbled furiously on the answer sheet, ignoring the tentative input from his teammates.
“It’s the Macintosh,” he declared, slapping the paper down with a flourish.
“But… wasn’t it something else before that? Like… a kit or something?” his kind-faced teammate ventured.
Greg waved her off. “No, no, no. Don’t overthink it. Trust me, it’s the Macintosh. I know this stuff.”
At our table, Sam raised an eyebrow at me. “What do you think?”
“It’s the Apple I,” I said confidently. “A DIY computer kit. They sold it before the Macintosh even existed.”
“Let’s do it,” Mia said, quickly writing it down and locking in our wager.
Across the bar, other teams were whispering furiously, but Greg’s voice cut through the room like a megaphone.
“Macintosh,” he said loudly, ensuring everyone heard him. “Bet everything. We’ve got this in the bag.”
The quizmaster began collecting the answer sheets, and I could see Greg’s teammates exchanging nervous glances.
One of them tried to adjust their wager, but Greg intercepted it. “Trust me,” he said, laughing. “You’ll thank me later.”
The room grew silent as the quizmaster reviewed the answers. “All right,” he said, drawing out the suspense. “The first product ever sold by Apple… was the Apple I, a do-it-yourself computer kit. Congratulations to everyone who got it right!”
Cheers erupted around the bar as the scoreboard updated. The Brain Trust, Greg’s team, plummeted to the bottom, their “all-in” gamble wiping out their lead.
Meanwhile, the Brain Teasers—my team—rocketed to first place.
Greg’s face was a masterpiece of disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “That’s wrong,” he stammered. “It has to be wrong. I mean, who even cares about the Apple I?”
His teammates didn’t reply.
The kind-faced woman simply folded her arms and gave him a look that said, We told you so.
Reading the Room, Not Just the Questions
As the quizmaster handed me the shiny gold trophy, the room broke into applause.
Sam and Mia whooped and clapped, and even a few strangers from other teams cheered us on.
I couldn’t resist glancing at Greg’s table.
His teammates had scattered, leaving him alone with his drink and his wounded pride. His smirk was long gone, replaced by a sullen glare.
“Hey, Greg,” I called out, raising the trophy high. “Looks like reading the whole book pays off sometimes.”
Laughter rippled through the bar, and Greg sank lower in his seat.
Sam leaned over, grinning. “You think he’s learned his lesson?”
“Doubtful,” I said, “but at least everyone else knows how much he really knows—which isn’t much.”
As we packed up to leave, the quizmaster approached our table.
“Great job tonight,” he said, shaking my hand. “And thanks for keeping things civil. Some people just take trivia a little too seriously.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well, it’s just a game. You’re supposed to have fun.”
The bar began to clear out, and I caught one last glimpse of Greg, now talking the bartender’s ear off about some obscure fact.
He hadn’t changed, of course, but the balance had shifted. For once, his bluster hadn’t won—and maybe that was victory enough.
As we stepped into the cool night air, Sam patted me on the back. “We should come every week. Who knows? Maybe Greg will make a comeback.”
“Or maybe,” I said, smiling, “we’ll get to watch him crash and burn all over again.”
And with that, we walked off, trophy in hand, already looking forward to the next round.