#10: Bingo. Brit-Hipstyle

Well Well Well, what have we got here. My friend suggested we do something “different” and signed us up for Underground Rebel Bingo. Yes, it’s as weird as it sounds, so don’t even try to explain it to someone. Ugh, wait, I guess I have to try to explain it to you. Let’s start from the beginning, as is the natural start of most places. (I would really love to go off on a tangent about the phrase “start from the beginning” cause who the eff “starts” from the “end,” it’s just stupid. Anyway…)

So it all started with a Facebook invite. What doesn’t nowadays? And that’s really all it took. After my friend looked at some pictures of past Health and Safety Meetings, the phone call was made, confirmed that we were in, and tickets were bought. I did not look at said pictures until the day of the event. At which point I sent a panicked email asking DO WE HAVE TO WRITE ON EACH OTHER?!?!

:: Sidenote:: I HATE HATE HATE having writing on me. I find it gross, and it makes my skin crawl. I refused to finger-paint in kindergarten, and was NEVER the girl who wrote notes on her hand to remember things. Listen, I am definitely not some prissy girl who doesn’t like to get dirty in other ways (before you think that, get your mind out of the gutter, perv. I mean mud and sand don’t bother me.) Just something about markers and pen make me want to immediately scrub my skin off while vomiting, okay? It’s a thing. Don’t pretend YOU don’t get all weird about having someone’s hair brush up against your pinky finger. Everyone has their things, this is mine. ::End Sidenote::

After I was ASSURED that was not necessary, we went on our way. Making sure we were not going to be sober, it did not seem like the event you attend in such a state, we hopped in a cab and headed for the “secret meeting spot” (Key Club, oops.) At the door we were (1) wrist-banded; (2)bag-checked; (3)wristband-stamped; (4)patted-down; (5)ARM-stamped; (6)given a marker and a bingo card. All. Within. 20. Seconds. Needless to say, this was slightly overwhelming, I haven’t felt that assaulted and bombarded ever, even in an airport. So, we naturally headed to the bar. Drinks in hand, we surveyed the crowd. Effing randomest one I’ve ever seen. But I liked it, some dressed in t-shirts and jeans, others in pajama-looking outfits, and Hollywood club attire as well. We saw people start writing on each other’s faces (I got nervous), and my friends decided they would write on each other’s arms (I supervised). Quite an impressive Superman emblem was drawn. I tried to polka-dot my friend, it looked like she had the measles, I considered it a success.

It took what seemed like forever for the actual “Bingo” to begin. (I don’t know why I put that in air-quotes, it is actually Bingo, just seemed appropriate.) In the meantime, the dude standing next to us asked when we were going to draw on our faces, to which I screamed at him “NEVER!” (I am beginning to think perhaps this wasn’t my scene). My friend realized a few minutes later that said dude was one of her step-brother’s friends, in fact, there was a whole group of them, in wigs and homemade marked white tees. When they recognized her back, they treated her like a celebrity and insisted on taking pictures with her (Backstory: she helped them with a security deposit issue on their apartment in the past. Sometimes people love lawyers. Rarely, but sometimes). After that parade of dreams ended, it was time for the show to begin. Enter Freddie Fortune, we all immediately fell in love. He is British, he is mohawked, and he is surely a huge asshole. All the makings of universal sex appeal. I asked my friend how many girls she thought he slept with a night. We both agreed on an average of 5. Putting our hormones in check, it was time to concentrate on the game at hand, after all, the best prize was that if you get Bingo, you have to jump onstage and hug Freddie, and we all wanted to win that moment of bliss. So it basically works just like bingo. Except the numbers are called via sexually explicit rhymes by a Columbia from Rocky Horror look-a-like, and the prizes are stuffed pandas and stage speakers. A lot of (planted?) people pretend to get Bingo and jump on stage to keep our attention, and quickly get pushed off. Lovebuckets, my pet name for Mr. Fortune, repeats the numbers in his lovely accent to make the crowd swoon, mixed in with some insults. Someone eventually wins, and then it’s all over in a flash.

All in all, it was good, clean fun. For the most part. Because, and this is hard for me to talk about due to its traumatizing nature, at some point in an intermission between games, it happened. I was marked. Three times. On my arm. All of a sudden, like great white sharks breaching the ocean waves, there were two drunk guys armed with markers, caps off, ready to strike. They started friendly, without showing their teeth (ink), asking if we’d ever been to one of these before. We replied politely, no, we hadn’t, but it was fun so far. Then all of a sudden, without warning, SWISH. WTF. What did you just do!? Is that marker? On me?! ::nervous laughter::: Ok, ok, fine, I subjected myself to that by attending this event. Thank you, it was great talking to you, nice of you to include me, but please don’t write on me again, please. SWISH SWISH. Two more marks. OMG WHY WHY WHY?!?!?! YOU HAVE TO STOP NOW, I’M NOT KIDDING, I WILL CUT YOU. IF YOU DO THAT ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR YOUR MANHOOD WILL BE GONE, I WILL FEED IT TO MY DOG, SHE LOVES BULLY STICKS, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE ARE MADE OF???? GET THE HINT? I DO NOT LIKE TO BE WRITTEN ON! DON’T TOY WITH ME, YOU’VE BEEN WARNED. They stopped. We enjoyed the rest of bingo, and I went home and scrubbed my arm until it bled.

So,  Rebel Bingo comes back to the U.S. in August. Sounds fun right? Who wants to  go?