A WhippyDip's Kind of Bingo
The Padre is here tonight. Always good to get some face time with the Padre. I figure if he sees me enough then maybe he'll come to the house or hospital and give me the last rites should I need them. I suppress the urge to jokingly ask him how much time off Purgatory for this activity. You know how Ken Cooper came up with aerobic points for everything from cleaning house to running a triathalon? Well, I figure there should be Purgatory points for bingo. I'm guessing a 3-1 ratio: three hours out of Purgatory for every hour spent at bingo. (Hold the disputatious emails; speaking of time in eternity is speculative at best.)
My but the kids are randy tonight. Kim said someone was "rubbing her butt". I said it wasn't me and she said she knew that, said it was some older lady who was doing it in order to ask her to get her a hotdog. I ask you: whatever happened to the simple arm tap?
Later Kim hears the word penis and freezes; her ears prick as it were. "You don't hear that word very much among a bunch of ladies!" she explains. She asked the sayee why she said that word and the sayee told her grandson or some such lad got it stuck in a zipper. Case closed. Or zipper closed. Ouch.
I'm selling 300s, or "Tree-hundreds" as they're cornily known. People like "Rednecks" and "Kings"; I can't much blame them for spurning something as hard corn as "Tree-hundreds", complete with a picture of a tree above the "$300". Pat is selling Kings. It's like she's selling Chivas Regal and I'm selling Wild Turkey. For the same price.
Kim gut-punched me. Said we have to do this again next week. We get July off, which makes it more palatable, but still it's bru-tile. I've got a rehersal dinner the next night and a wedding the following day. But to tell the truth I actually look forward to bingo. It's a wonderful test - a micro acid test of Christian commitment (sort of like how Opus Dei'rs spike their morning showers with ice cold water) since it's something I can't do in my natural strength and wouldn't dream of doing normally. I can do all things, even Bingo, thru Christ which strengthens me. And of course my fellow workers are salt and light and great fun.
I'm greatly heartened by some of the customers. There are a couple of grandmotherly women with truly beatific smiles. I try to return them just as well as they were delivered but I don't know that I could or did. They are the sort of smiles one normally never gets. Long-lasting, glad-to-see you smiles with eyes twinkling like stars.
Pam (!) scoops me concerning one of the Grand Poobahs of bingo, an elderly Italian gent in OSU gear who pushes a cart of hotdogs & snacks around. Turns out he's a multi-millionaire. Whoda thunk it? His wife plays bingo every week and only throws small bills around, $1s & $5s. You know the highway signs that tell you what food and lodging is at the exit? His idea. Made a mint. And yet here he is at bingo. Pushing a cart full of stale foods. I love this parish.
During "after-bingo", that heady, drunk-on-fatigue time when we all gather round the pizza and make confessions like Kim did ("I wanted to be a nun...I dressed in black like a nun when I was younger..."), it comes out that Pat met her husband at the rather eerily unromantic "WhippyDips" restaurant. Some words are just funny on their own, like "WhippyDips". Much teasing ensued...They go there for their anniversaries, Kim said. It's the only time...oh nevermind.