It was two years ago when I fell into a unisex restroom, surprising an already irate woman who came barging out the door swinging her purse and screaming: “PERVERT!”
Last year, about this time again, I was telling you of the first time I won big at bingo.
In my exuberance at the number O-67 being called, I leaped off the bar stool, catching the barmaid and her tray of four beers and one Whiskey Cloudy by surprise.
Together, we pinwheeled over a table of four bingo players and into the jukebox before tumbling over and onto the bingo machine that shorted out in a flash of light, sending 43 bingo balls across the floor already cluttered with cigarette butts, spent matches and loose change and smeared with bingo blood, sweat and tears and a good mixture of melting snow and mud and more beer.
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