There was a fin de siècle (of course I got that spelling from Google; it started out as fin de sickle) atmosphere in the air at bingo last night. Two of the co-workers said they were on the verge of quitting, which was spontaneous with my own confession of bingo burnout:
Bingo burnout - n. often marked by the tendency to want to kiss a customer just for giving you exact change.The apocalyptic mood was heightened by the newest instant lottery game: "Bass Hole". How's that for subtly? If that doesn't represent bingo jumping the shark then I don't what does. Pass me the Metamucil, I'm heading for the door. The only question is to whether to try to limp till the next bingo volunteer recognition picnic which involves free catered food.
And while it's true I didn't get into the bingo volunteer game for the glamor and exotic characters, they were a nice byproduct. As an eliminator of writer's block there's nothing better. And it keeps your brain trim, at least if you play it. But, alas, no one did anything crazier than usual last night.
My co-workers were suitably crazy though. The giddiness that we had all previously attributed to hours of cigarette smoke seem to be the result of bingo itself, prompting another definition:
Bingo madness - n. a form of insanity brought on by fatigue and tedium that causes you to say things you otherwise wouldn't, short of consuming a twelve-packWriting this from the clear-headed morning, I now recall (fortunately sans hangover) saying something about the pain of a catheter and expressing the great distance it had to travel. I don't know, you can't take me anywhere, least of all bingo.
One co-worker who declined to be identified on the advice of counsel described a spa visit from hell. Her husband and father-in-law got together and bought a Mother's Day present, an 8am-4pm spa package that was all-inclusive (say like Michael Scott) including everything from haircut to massage to manicure to pedicure to younameitcure. One day the mother/daughter tandem decided to use their beauty training academy gift certificates. Asked to slip into a paper bra and panties, they couldn't tell which was the bra and which the panties. Before that they asked to enter a tub of hot water which later gave them yeast infections. The "massage therapists" were students for whom massage was not their particular interest area and thus acted as if they were doing it at gunpoint. Even better, the 'soft music' that is usually played for massages was talk radio. Rush Limbaugh. Brilliant! Rush while you get a massage. Then too was the gourmet meal they got for lunch.
"What do you want from Quiznos?"
All-in-all, it was the spa from hell with the total price doubled by the cost of a doctor's visit and antibiotics.
But the killer is this: the next year the men in their lives secretly cabal'd together and decided to get them the same gift! They'd reportedly forgotten how lame it was. This is exactly what gives men, deservedly, a bad name. Not that gift-buying is easy. It's always hard.
That's what she said!!
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