THERE OUGHTTA BE A LAW AGAINST BRAN MUFFINS

What is it with old people and Bingo?

And I'm not talking about that goddamned dog and his insanely catchy song.

I'm talking about the game of Bingo. If you can call it a game.

When I was a kid living in Germany, we played Bingo a lot at the local Air Force Base. Or Army Base. Or Navy Base. Whatever jarhead base they had there at the time.

I remember the place was crawling with old folks ... lots of them were German too ... and they'd all croak out "BINGO!" at the top of their withered, diseased lungs and it would scare me because I was only 15 and I was a wee bit sensitive to old Germans screeching around me.

Anyway, Saturday night I did a wedding at a church.

And here's how I set up for weddings.

I show up in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts and set up.

Once I'm set up, I find a bathroom, cram my fat ass into the handicapped stall and get into my tux.

The very first time I did this, I made the mistake of asking someone where I could change into my tux.

You know ... is there a small room somewhere?

Maybe the priest's study?

Or the room where the priests molest the little boys? Is that room available or is somebody getting their jingle bells fondled right about now?

Anyway, asked somebody to point me in the direction of the "Changing In To The Tux" room.

And they said "Bathroom's right over there."

And since then, I've realized that while I take a great amount of pride that I'm a tux wearing son of a bitch at weddings ... most people don't give a shit.

Go stand in somebody's dried piss while you get dressed, hommes.

We don't care.

Back to my story ... did a wedding Saturday, was walking to the bathroom down a hallway and heard someone yell in a very hoarse voice "BEEEEEEEEE EIGHT!"

And then another voice peeped "bingo!"

And I thought ... Jesus H. ... they're playing Bingo in there.

I peeked my head in the door because nothing disgusts me more than seeing a bunch of toothless windbags on life support trying to keep up with a slew of Bingo cards that are going to win them absolutely nothing but the disdain of their ancient peers for being winners and rubbing it in their flaky noses that they are LOSERS.

Sure enough, the room was full of old creatures, most of whom were nodding off into their cards because it was 5:30 p.m. and past their bedtime.

I growled "you all make me SICK!!" at them and popped into the bathroom.

Once in there, I wedged myself and all my crap into the handicapped stall and started undressing and then dressing in the tux.

AS SOON AS I STARTED, I heard the door open.

Then the slow mechanical sounds of somebody walking with a metal walker.

And then the groans of a man who realized that the handicapped stall was occupied.

By a fully capable fat bastard (me) getting dressed in a $400 bottom-of-the-line tux.

So he's out there groaning and sighing and upset because he's missing out on Bingo but even MORE upset that he's about to shit himself silly because of my complete and utter disrespect for the handicapped.

Well excuse me General Shitshimself. The regular stall was built for midgets. I'm a large man and need plenty of room to swing my arms around in a circle while I do pirouettes in the stall.

So I'm standing there in my tux shirt, boxers and socks and have to gather up all my stuff, temporarily relocate from the handicapped stall to the sink and get dressed there.

"Here you go sir," I say, pretending to have respect for the near-dead. "I'll just get dressed at the sink."

"Ungh," the old man grunts at me as he slowly shuffles into the stall.

So I'm getting dressed at the sink, trying not to let my tux jacket slip into the festering disease pool that is their sink as I listen to the old man unhook his suspenders, unzip his pants, groan as he lowers himself onto the toilet and then ... ohmigod ... then releases his bowels.

Ladies and gentlemen ... I've heard 4th of July firework displays that were quieter.

This guy HAD to have flames shooting out his ass. That's the only thing that could have possibly made the noises he was making.

And after every loud pop and boom, he'd go "Ohhhhh".

Way to cover up the sound effects smorgasboard, Grampy!

Soon, I had to start breathing through my mouth because the stench of the weeks worth of oatmeal that had settled in a remote part of his bowels and found its way out smelled like a slaughterhouse full of rotten eggs.

Then I started to panic because I was wondering if there was any possible way I could be inhaling his fecal matter through my mouth. I've read that little flakes of poop will become airborne sometimes and what were the chances that my lungs were filling up with old man shit?

I literally got my pants on, suspenders on and grabbed my stuff on the vanity and bundled it all up into a ball with my shoes and coat and ran out of the bathroom to let this guy shit himself inside out in private.

So I find a chair in the hallway and put everything in that and start putting on my shirt buttons, cuff links, cummberbund, tie, vest, shoes, Axe spray (for da ladies) hair spray, etc.

Just as I'm getting finished, Gramps emerges from the bathroom and heads straight to the Bingo room across the hall.

"What'd I miss?" he croaks.

Judging from the smell coming out of the bathroom, I'd guess the toilet.

I guess this entry was less about Bingo and more about an old man's bowel movements.

Then again ... have you ever expected any more out of me than that?