Hey, kids — it’s time to turn those “you can’t fucking smoke in the fucking bars in New York fucking City anymore, for fuck’s sake” frowns upside-down! Well, we at Deadly Nightshade Industries do know of one bar that still allows smoking, but we swore on roughly seventeen generations of dead relatives that we wouldn’t divulge its name or location to anyone, so it looks like the rest of you will have to find non-pulmonary distractions to amuse you in your local pub while chewing a wad of Nicorette the size of a volleyball — and what better way to bring friends together than with a nic-fitting speed round of the newest game from the Deadly Nightshade Industries Mean-Spirited And Kind Of Dumb Game Division: Drunk Bingo?

No, no, not “get drunk and play bingo,” although our R&D chief would like me to mention that he can’t think of a good reason why you shouldn’t do that too. What’s that? All right, “but it’s ten in the morning” is a pretty good reason, but, you know, besides that. Anyway, Drunk Bingo is not the same as playing ordinary bingo while drunk. In ordinary bingo, the game board consists of numbered squares. In Drunk Bingo, the game board consists of different kinds of drunk people — so, instead of putting a little marker doodad on, say, N15, you put it on the square that reads, “WOOOOOOO!” See? It’s easy, and fun for the whole family — even if the game board is your whole family!

But enough about the Holiday Edition — let’s play!

Using a pen, pencil, or cocktail stirrer dipped in body glitter, draw a five-by-five grid of squares on a piece of paper. Yes, you can use a napkin. Or a paper towel. No, that blonde girl’s business card is too small. What do you mean, “What about the blonde girl”? What about her? I mean, she seems nice, I gue– oh. Sure, if she says it’s okay. Maybe not so much with the Sharpie, though…oy, fine, she’s a voting adult, whatever. Five-by-five grid. Got it?

Okay. Now, fill in each square with a regulation Drunk Bingo™ type of drunk from the list below. For every five drunk squares you fill in, you may also fill in one square with a regulation Drunk Bingo™ type of bartender.

REGULATION DRUNKS
The grizzled guy huddled in umpteen layers of plaid, marinating himself in Sinatra and the Chieftains and entertaining thoughts of murder-suicide, thoughts which he utters aloud should you make the mistake of flipping past Frankie Sweet Music on the jukebox

“I love you man! I LOVE YOU MAAAAAAAAAAAAN! YOU! AND YOU! Wait, what’s your name, again?”

The middle-aged drunk uncle with the red-rinsed hair who looks like Allison’s icky dad on Melrose Place, enjoying half a dozen bourbons neat before the evening’s spree of bad touching

The Australian who has lived in the U.S. for fifteen years but still hates Americans, American beer, American soccer, American rugby, American youth hostels, the way Americans eat French fries, and American dictionaries that have a little picture of him next to the definition of “splenetic bellowing directed at no one in particular”

EITHER “What? I’m totally, totally fine. I’m fine. I’m fine!”
OR “I am NOT drunk, you big poopyhead poop”
OR “Ex-CUSE me but you are NOT my father and you can-NOT tell me WHAT TO DO and if I want another martini I will HAVE another martini, Mr. Man Guy”
OR “La la la la, you can’t catch m– whooooaaaa! I almost fell down! But I didn’t fall down! Yaaaaaay!”
FOLLOWED BY “I…I…[brrrraallf!]”

The bedheaded film fascists whose argument about Cassavetes has nearly reduced a couple of them to tears (whole table counts as one square)

“Would you care to dance, young lady? …Stuck-up bitch.”

The guy in the Hawaiian shirt over a thermal long-sleeved t-shirt who stands extremely close to you in order to share a number of insights he has collected on the subject of making snack cakes available for sale in bars, and the fact that you cannot understand a word he says proceeds from your ignorance and closed-mindedness on the subject of Little Debbie and not because he is slurring, and he guesses that’s your boyfriend coming back from the bathroom, so, wow, it’s such a coincidence, but at that exact moment the guy in the Hawaiian shirt needs to stride purposefully to the other side of the bar to speak to his friend about a matter of considerable urgency, no time to stick around and find out if it’s just your brother or a friend, or even say “goodbye” or “talk to you later,” and you could swear you see a Hawaiian-shirt-shaped cartoon puff of smoke as he flees the scene.

“Well, I think we should talk about it, because…what do you mean, ‘not now,’ why not? You always do that, you always push me away and, and, and invalue my emotions that I am having, that are very very real! You do too! Okay! Fine! Maybe we should! …Whaaaaaaaat? ‘OKAY’? So you WANT to see other people? How long have you felt that way? YOU ASSHOLE! I HATE YOU! GOD! Ohhhh Gahhhhhd booooooo hoo hoo hoo hoooooo another appletini please boo hoo hoo hoo WHAT DID I DO WRONG WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME I DON’T UNDERSTAAAAAAAND!”

The so-drunk-he’s-legally-dead groom at the bachelor party, propped up in a corner booth by his Patron-swilling friends, posed for crude pictures by the friends, drawn on by the friends with lipstick, festooned with large novelty bra by the friends, and sold by the friends to the old man eating shepherd’s pie at the end of the bar for twenty bucks and a bottle of Jameson’s

The friends

The so-drunk-she’s-legally-dead maid of honor, so exhausted by the entire screechy ordeal that she’s hiding under a table and washing down raw penis-shaped pasta with her seventh cosmopolitan

The bride

The bride’s friends

The bride’s ribboned headdress, marooned behind the toilet

“I GET KNOCKED DOWN! BUT I GET UP AGAIN! YOU’RE NEVER GONNA KEEP ME DOWN!”

“Hi. Hi. Hi. Hiiiii. [urp] Hi.”

The couple that believes that, because they have their eyes closed and thus cannot see you, that you in turn cannot see them going for the TV-MA rating over there in the corner

Whoever is responsible for the dart and/or eight ball that just whizzed within microns of your head

REGULATION BARTENDERS
The barely-eighteen girlfriend or younger sister of the weekend bartender who needs detailed instruction on the assemblage of a vodka tonic, including the fact that it contains both vodka and tonic, and the proportions thereof, and the fact that traditionally the bartender doesn’t just hand the patron the requested lime wedge, or put it on the bottle of Amstel

The friendly guy — good with buybacks and replenishing the bowl of snack mix, but not as good with letting you have your own conversation

The older lady who owns the bar, but who nevertheless should think about unscrewing that wig a few turns, because Animal Planet is great and all but it’s the ninth inning of a tie game for God’s sake

The slinky tattoo-sleeved Pratt Institute refugee with purple half-moons of hair dye under her fingernails who is genuinely too tragic to live, and for that reason had her name legally changed to Emily The Strange last year (also accepted in this category: any bartender with Edward Gorey tattoos)

The Bob, identifiable by his propensity for giving male patrons high-fives, side-fives, knuckle-fives, and finger-snaps (note: simply writing “Bob” in the square will not count — it is “THE Bob,” as he will no doubt remind you at some point by referring to himself in the third person)

The catalog model/actress/career bartendrix who suffers from a rare vision disorder which renders other women invisible to her

The guy whom you really shouldn’t offer any help with the crossword, or in fact any attempt small talk at all, because he knows What They Say About Bartenders, but he don’t play that shit, so stick to pointing and grunting — and it’s very important to him that you understand that THE KITCHEN IS CLOSED ALREADY

“A Miller Lite? Oooooh, ain’t we the fancy one.”

Once you’ve got all your squares filled in, settle down in a corner booth at your local, designate a caller, and start playing — the first player to get five drunks and/or bartenders in a row horizontally, vertically, or diagonally wins! It’s just that simple!

Look out for our limited editions at a toy store or 99-cent store near you, including the All-Chipster edition, Junior Player My First Passionfruit Wine Cooler, and X-Treme Busted Knucklez with Mickey Rourke interactive timer — coming soon from Deadly Nightshade Industries!

April 7, 2003

Share!