"Maxwell, let's go play bingo," my sweetie said to me one evening.

"I don't know how to play bingo," I replied sullenly.

"You don't know how to play poker either, but that's never stopped you."

"Not on your life!" I said defiantly. "You couldn't catch me dead in one of those places."

"Oh, come on, you old sourpuss," she cajoled. "You'll have a lot of fun. Besides, you'll probably lose a lot less money than you do playing Omaha."

My sweetie sure has a way with words. She missed a great career with the diplomatic corps. So, off we went to one of those gigantic bingo halls. Inside was a sea of blue-haired matrons and a handful of husbands looking sheepish and hiding their faces. Instead of senior citizen discounts, a sign announced discounts for anyone under 55. This was understandable because, to borrow a line from Milton Berle, the average age of the bingo players was deceased.

I walked up to the counter and asked for the cheapest ticket they had. Giving me a look of disgust, an attendant took my $4 and handed me several sheets of paper, each containing six printed bingo cards. Six cards at a time! How in the world could I ever keep up? In bewilderment, I sat down beside my sweetie and noticed that she had eight six-card sheets spread out before her.

"Only one sheet at a time?" she asked sweetly. "Were you planning to take a nap between
numbers?"

Ah, well, I thought, what's the big deal? I vaguely recalled my mother playing the game back in the '40s. Someone called out numbers and if you filled in a whole line, you yelled "Bingo" and got a set of dishes or something.

But then I discovered that things have gotten a bit more complicated since then. The first game was regular bingo, but then came stuff like crazy L, crazy kite, triangle, crazy T, double bingo, block of nine, G-ball coverall, Greek bonanzas, and other terms, all of which were Greek to me.

Barbara tried explaining them. "Crazy L" was an "L" formed at any angle. "Crazy T" was sort of the same thing. But I started getting lost at "crazy kite." My sweetie saw the look of distress on my face.

"Oh, forget it, dummy. I'll watch out for you." She glanced at the table. "Where's your dauber?" she cried.

"My what?"

"Your dauber. A marker -- to mark your sheets."

"Why can't I use a pencil?"

"Everyone uses a dauber, you idiot. Now go up and buy one and don't embarrass me."

Buy one? I had to pay another dollar for a little bottle of ink with a felt tip. I sat down again and Barbara patiently explained how you put a blank piece of paper under each bingo sheet so that the ink doesn't bleed through to the bingo cards underneath. Well, I guessed I was as ready as I'd ever be. The games got under way and the first number was called: N41. N41? I had it!

I jumped to my feet. "Bingo!" I yelled out excitedly.

Heads swiveled; people booed and shot dirty looks at me. Barbara tried to duck under the table. "You need a whole line, not just one number, you moron. Now, try to pay attention!"

"OK, OK, I was just kidding when I yelled 'bingo,'" I lied.

The next number I heard called was G6. "G6?" I said in confusion. "I can't find any G6."

"That's B6!" Barbara yelled. "B as in bonehead! I told you to get the wax cleaned out of your ears, Maxwell."

More numbers were called. Barbara's hand flew like lightning over her eight sheets, while I struggled with my single set. She looked at my paper. "Do you have something against N41 and O75? Why haven't you filled them in?"

"I was getting to them," I explained. "Right now I'm looking for B49."

"That's G49!" she screamed. "G as in goat head! And why haven't you filled in your bonus numbers? Watching you play bingo is more painful than watching you play poker."

A lady to our left, who had been watching me with growing concern, leaned over. "Yes, but it was so nice of you to take your father away from the rest home for the evening," she said, patting Barbara's hand sympathetically.

Just then someone yelled "Bingo." Barbara sighed deeply. "Thank God this one's over."

The next game was crazy L. Barbara noticed me marking off numbers on the inside of the squares. "Ignore them," she hissed. "They can't be used for the design."

"I'll mark any numbers I feel like," I replied belligerently.

"Oh, dear," said the lady on our left. "Perhaps you should take your father back to the home."

The game ended and new ones began. Despite the fact that they called out each number twice, showed it on a television monitor, and flashed it in lights, I was falling farther and farther behind. For a while, Barbara stamped numbers I had missed, and stopped me when I kept working on games that already had ended. But after a while, she gave up and tried to ignore me.

I was getting hopelessly lost. "Hey!" I yelled out to the announcer. "Can't you slow it down a little?"

There were more angry shouts of "Quiet!" and a nice old lady in a wheelchair threw a box of popcorn at me.

Another game began. The first number was called and I jumped to my feet again, yelling "Bingo! Bingo!"

Barbara squeezed her eyes shut and tried to make herself invisible. "Why are you doing this to me?" she trembled. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"No, look," I insisted. "All the numbers on my sheet are filled in."

Barbara looked. "You fool! You didn't put that blank sheet underneath like I told you, and all the ink bled through!"

A chorus of hisses, boos, and curses filled the hall, louder and more ominous than ever. Ashtrays were thrown. Somebody shouted, "Let's get him!" and a tidal wave of old ladies swinging purses, canes, and daubers surged toward me.

"Barbara," I screeched, "help me!"

Barbara pointed at me. "There he is, girls. Go get him."

Moments before I was trampled to death beneath hundreds of support-hosed feet, several security guards rushed in and dragged me to safety.

The upshot was that I was the first person in history ever to be barred from bingo -- just when I was beginning to enjoy myself, too. Oh, well, maybe I can get Barbara to teach me keno.

Max Shapiro is a lifelong poker player who has been writing poker humor columns for Card Player magazine for 14 years. His stories are populated by a wacky cast of characters such as Big Denny (proprietor of the Barstow Card Casino), Ralph the Rattler, Dirty Wally, and his grandfather Filthy Willy, many of whom are based on his oddball poker pals. Max is a former newspaper reporter and editor who won several awards for his feature writing. He is also one of the �experts� with RoyalVegasPoker.com, an Internet gaming site where he is a bounty for one of their weekly tournaments.