BINGO (part 2): Winner winner, your kitty eats too much dinner

Being slapped in the face by lady luck and shunned by the regulars the first time couldn't keep us down. We took our rightful place in those vinyl covered chairs and stared the Bingo gods right in the face and said "Eh. I guess we have nothing better to do. Why not?".

I was ready to win. This time, to be a Bingo winner, I had to think, eat and live like a bingo winner. In the quiet moments before leaving my house, I sat alone eating a frozen meal and watching a recorded late night t.v. program. I chased this with a single serve weight watchers dessert. I can only assume this was the pre-game ritual of the seasoned vets.

I gathered up some refreshments, a lucky charm, did some deep stretches, psyched myself up in the mirror and I was off.


I walked in like I owned the place. I shoved a few people out of the way and walked up to the counter.

"I'll take it all." I confidently said.I clutched my 3-ons and 6-ons like long lost friends.


The original crew plus some new faces were there.( It wouldn't be a good sequel without the introduction of new characters.) We set up camp and dug in for the long night ahead.

The first half is a blur to me. I am on a bingo high. Daubers are flying balls are rolling. I think a couple people in our group win a game. I smile and congratulate the lucky ones, but inside I hate them. I want to say "BINGO!" so bad.

After each game we sign the back of our stupid loser bingo cards so they may be entered into a drawing for some junky prize. Jilted by the evening already, I sign the back of the my cards with such names as"boobies", "boobarella", "tractor" and various drawings...including a cat. (seen here in this computer generated reproduction)

Intermission came and went. The din of the bingo crowd seemed more lively than last time. Besides being glared at by a bulldog-faced woman, everyone seemed to tolerate and (dare I say)...accept our wild crowd. I hardly noticed that the drawing for the junky prize had begun.

The caller manhandled the piece of paper, paused and leaned into the microphone.

"ummmm...Somebody drew a cat."

It didn't register completely at first. I got flush and felt the warm glow of a winner come over me. I got real hot and sweaty. I leaped from my seat, stumbled on some crap on the floor and began to run to the front. The crowd was going WILD. This was MY moment! What will I say? should I make a speech?

"You stay there. We will bring it to you" The caller said. I deflated a little and sat my perspiring ass back in the chair.

A man wearing a crew neck sweatshirt with a wildlife scene on it brings me a stack of "bonanza" cards. It's kind of an elite bingo thing. I won't bore you with the details.

At some point in the second half the wildlife sweatshirt man taps me on the shoulder and croons "I want chicken, I want liver-"

And I, in my very best singing voice complete the phrase with "Meow mix, meow mix please deliver..." Aaaand the crowd goes crazy again. I really am a hit.

Later I meowed at him and he made a b-line for our table. You could tell this was his time to finally open up to someone about his life.

"you know, I have a cat at home that is so fat. She's so fat and she has tiny legs. I have tried to put her on a diet but she eats so fast then she just...she just begs for more!"

"Sounds like she has a food addiction." I respond. Little does he know that, I too, have a big hairy pussy cat at home. It's a secret I have kept from the bingo crew until now.

Well...The bonanza cards were all losers, too. A juicebox, a bag full of lollipops a "lucky" pig and TWO trolls that smelled like pee couldn't help me. But I had my moment. The fleeting feeling that I could be touched in that special place (you know...where the swimsuit covers) by the hands of fate.

I think our bingo careers may not resume any time soon. We will always have the kitty. Here's to you, fat pussy. I will never forget.

BINGO (part 1)

"Oooh! we should try BINGO!" Summer says.

"Sure! Let's do it." I say, wide-eyed and innocent.

My head is filled with images of rowdy fun with nonstop action. Maybe this could even be lucrative? How hard is it really?

So, with fresh pedicures (Summer's feet not only received a pedicure but a vigorous stroking and a spanking as well, but I digress...) we waded into the seedy underbelly that is the bingo scene accompanied by a few other fantastic friends. We quickly realized that we were in over our heads. This is no game. This is not a sport. This is obviously a lifestyle chosen by those pulled in by the siren call of the bingo caller that, for the life of her, cannot pronounce F*$%ing "V" sounds or "T" sounds (some know how furious this really makes me).

We walk up to the counter. On display are the daubers. Slightly phallic bottles filled with ink and squishy tops. So many different colors, sizes and... smells. Some with illustrations, some with profanity (which, ironically, is strictly prohibited by this establishment.) I am overcome with a feeling of inferiority, because we have only dollar tree daubers lacking any sort of bells or whistles. The woman behind the counter awaits our request. We are slack jawed. A sea of intimidation washes over me and I crumble to her persuasive pitch to buy "the Party Pack" .

"It's got all your 6-on regular games 3-on special games" She explains. "It really is the best deal."

What the F%@# is that supposed to mean?!? Do I look like one of these ladies with a fanny pack and a caddy FULL of daubers?

"mmm hmm...wait what? can you explain all that?"

She rattles on about something, but my undiagnosed ADD has gotten the best of me and I refuse to ask again for fear of alienation and ridicule.

We find a seat at one of the 30 foot tables. The hall has the decorative charm of a community college cafeteria with the eerie hush of a library. One of our group pulls out his good luck charms. He obviously plays for keeps.


For 3 straight hours we giggle like kids every time anything even remotely resembling sexual innuendo is said. This can only be explained by the fact that non of us has developed past the intellectual development of a 12 year old. I'm sorry, but when someone says "6 way on your 6-on" I am going to, out of obligation, respond "Oh I'll have a 6 way on your 6 on". Every. Single. Time. And don't even get me started on "O69". We are the recipients of glares and shushes from patrons with long faces and glazed over eyes. You can't socialize too much. Bingo moves fast. If you don't keep your head on a swivel, you are done. We aren't here to make friends. We are here to win.

"BINGO!" is called all around us but non of us are blessed enough to yell these words out on this night. And you know what really gets me? These people aren't even that excited when they win! Do they have ice water coursing through their veins? With each passing game a part of me dies a little. I know that if I could only win I would finally be a somebody. I would instantly be younger, more beautiful and better at math. While Each Fran, Betty and Barbara wins, Marie goes unrewarded for her diligence and quick learning. The troll has failed everyone at the table.

We walk away feeling accomplished in spirit. Or was it defeated, poorer and exhausted? One would think that we would leave it at that...Will my day come where I can bask in the florescent spotlight? Stay tuned to find out....