Listen to this articleThe road to Third Friday Bingo with the Matrons of Mayhem is fraught with danger and excitement.
I’m writing this column as I emerge, confused and foggy, from the veil of pain killers (triple the recommended dosage) that I found necessary to ingest last night after Third Friday Bingo.
It was a dark and stormy night. Well, if truth be told, it wasn’t storming, but since the change back from daylight saving time, it was indeed dark. Dark enough to mask the here-to-fore undetected treachery and duplicitous nature of Pansy Pap Smear. I took little notice of the storm clouds building in the Western sky. With hindsight being 20/20, I should have recognized them as a harbinger of impending doom.
I arrived at the First Baptist Church, all perky, ready to set up the room for a night of harmless frivolity and raucous fundraising. My mood was especially elevated because I was going to debut my new purple beaded gown, which I recently purchased in Las Vegas. After a couple of hours of sweating (oh, I forgot, queens don’t sweat, we glisten) I was satisfied that the room was in order as the audience and the other Matrons of Mayhem arrived, reporting for duty.
Bingo got off to a pretty good start. However, during the course of handling my balls in the second game, I accidentally fumbled with them and made a bingo calling error, for which an overly exuberant, anal retentive, nit-picky, persnickety, fastidious audience member called a party foul on me. Due to the sadistic nature of the audience members, wishing to see a gravity-enhanced queen (of sufficient size and mass to pull small planets out of orbit) experience heart failure, made me run repeatedly from one end of the very large room to the other for five minutes, gathering up one dollar at a time. The result of this torture was that I gathered a total of $71 in the process. Similarly, during a subsequent game, Pansy Pap Smear also committed a party foul by spilling half the balls onto the floor, for which she gathered $61.
It was after the totals were posted on the Donation Diva Board that Pansy’s true colors of being a malicious, vindictive, cheating trollop began to reveal themselves. She grabbed a donation net pleading with the audience that she needed to gather 11 more dollars, so as to outshine me. Well, I simply could not allow this to happen, so also grabbed a net and we proceeded to divest the audience of their dollars. Pansy, the thief that she is, would not only take the offered money from the audience members but would also reach down and steal any additional money the person had on the table. I, on the other hand, remained totally above-board and beyond reproach, accepting only those dollars which were being offered to me.
WHEN QUEENS COLLIDE:
It became readily apparent that I was collecting more than she was. Unexpectedly, the bitch swooped past me, sticking her grubby little talons into my net, and stole about half of the dollars I had gathered. I gave chase, but she is much smaller, younger, and more nimble than I, gained the advantage and took refuge by diving onto the stage. A hair-pulling, bitch-slapping, eye-gouging cat fight proceeded. At least one 10-dollar bill was torn asunder in the fray.
Bongo, The Urban Jungle Boy, called a truce to the fight when he announced that Bob Henline had donated a $20 bill, and wanted to see a “real drag race” to settle the contest. I steeled myself to compete by removing my interchangeable nipples so as to lessen wind drag, and by removing my silver-sequined slippers so that my bare feet could gather additional traction on the vinyl floor.
Bongo counted us down and we were off. I took the early lead, but I had not taken into account the fact that I was not wearing running shorts, but in fact, was wearing a long skirt that did not allow room for the long strides necessary to run a race. At about the halfway point, I began to realize that my top was going faster than my bottom (apparently, there is a first time for everything) and I began to lose my balance and pitch forward.
DRAG QUEEN DOWN:
That usurping wench, Pansy just kept on going as I hit the floor on my knees and breasticles, sliding for about 15 feet before coming to a stop. Sparks flew as the electrical breasticles gouged out new trenches in the flooring. It’s a good thing that the force of the landing did not force me to fart, for if the methane cloud had ignited from the breasticle sparks, the whole building could have been leveled. The one true triumph of this rough landing was that the beehive hair remained in place. God bless Aqua-Net! People quickly rushed to my aid. It wasn’t until, with enormous effort, they rolled me over, tits skyward, that my hair fell off and we discovered that my knees were bleeding and that impact of the breasticles had left a large bruise on my torso. I have now donated blood, sweat, and tears (it’s my bingo and I’ll cry if I need to) to the community.
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:
1. Should Third Friday Bingo be classified as a full-contact sport?
2. Should I wear protective pads and shields when at bingo?
3. Should I hire a private investigator to discover which audience member called the foul on me?
4. Do breasticles perform the same function as collision airbags?
5. If I had died, could someone have used the batteries in my boobs to defibrillate my heart?
6. Should I wear a medical bracelet instructing that my breasticles be removed before calling 911?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
