Last Night

I was told by Ken Mullins' yappy little grandson who is constantly bugging me when he comes to visit that "Last Night" is the title of a song by a band called the STOKES, and that this will cause confusion for anyone trying to GOGGLE this entry. As far as I can tell, most webblogreaders are up on all the latest goggle information, so I'm not too worried about anyone confusing me for any STOKES song.

Last night was bingo night at the facility, hosted as always by Herman Wilson. He does a mean Fonz impression, but this inevitably leads to confusion, as everyone thinks that another "AAAAYYY!" ball has come up. Anyway, Mrs. Glickman won the first two games as usual, people let her win I think because her husband choked and died on a piece of steak in the facility dining hall two months ago, a fact I dutifully reported to my son Ed as an assessment of the conditions of this facility as it compares to somewhere like, oh, say, the Helmsford Arms, but all Ed wanted was to ask more questions about the deceased! There are cultures that believe that once a person is dead they are not to be spoken of ever again, almost as if they never existed in the first place. Well I'm sure myself and the 149th Infantry killed most of them off in DubyaDubya Two, not ever seeing this future consequence of when I'm trying to get my successful son to start sharing the success that I was such a large part of. The forgotten dead culture probably would have been big. Scientology big. But DubyaDubya Two were some crazy times for which no one could be reasonably judged for their actions. Even those of us who hung bricks from the penises of our captives had our reasons. You had to be there.

So when it became clear that, once again, the fix was in for Mrs. Glickman, I did what any curious player would do and switched boards with her when she was swallowing one of her pills. Sure enough, I won! Herman Wilson looked uncomfortable about the whole thing, but I told him that I would be as gracious a winner as ever, and proceeded to thank everyone who'd played any part in my being at that Bingo game at that particular time, especially my son Ed who chose this facility over far superior facilities, where the bingo boards are probably laser lighted like they do to the bowling alleys now. Why in my day a laser light anywhere near you meant that Charlie had his sights set and was ready to shoot your block off, but what can I say? These kids don't understand history. I can say that.

Next time I win at bingo, I hope Mrs. Hairston is there. I'm smitten with her and would like her to see what an alpha dog I am in Meeting Room C.