During last week’s self-imposed exile from Whidbey Island, for the very first time, I experienced a not-uncommon adventure that many of you wonderful readers have shared.

The experience known as Bingo.

I am not sure if Bingo is an acronym for anything special, but for me, Bingo means, “Beings inhaling numerically generated oxygen.”

Maybe it could also represent, “Boisterous incidents not going over.”

One of the ladies at the Ephrata Moose Lodge No. 1894 where I was losing my Bingoinity told me that I was talking too loud.

She added that she was unable to concentrate.

Could it have been affected by her easement to the bar?

Naturally, I was too loud.

I am always too loud.

But it sure comes in handy when you want to yell “Bingo!” in a crowded room of Bingoists.

The lady seated next to me, after refusing my offer to play my stack of cards so I could watch the dart tournament in the bar, advised me that I was one number away from Bingo.

“How do you know that? Are you a psychic Bingoist?” I questioned.

“No, honey, your number is up on the TV screen, but don’t say anything yet because he has not called it.”

Sure enough, Ed, the Moose Lodge No. 1894 voice of Bingo, who speaks as if he has eaten Camel cigarette omelets every morning for breakfast for the last 60 years, announced the next number of the retrieved Ping-Pong ball — “G-21.”

I knocked over my Vernors, smuggled in earlier from my truck, as I leapt up with my flimsy but colorful piece of paper, exclaiming “Bingo!”

Immediately, unarmed guards approached me, demanding to see my documentation.

After a series of pronouncements by the Bingo verifiers of my purple dauberred numbers, Ed the Voice leaned into the microphone, “That’s a good Bingo.”

I didn’t know whether to roll over or ask for a treat.

Then another unarmed guard approached asking for my name, address and phone number.

“What’s this all about? Did I do something wrong? Did that lady file a claim against my speaking loudly? Is there already a temporary restraining order preventing my further Bingoing?”

“No, honey, you need to sign this receipt for income tax purposes.”

“But I’m sitting here next to my CPA. Can’t Stevie verify the $20? How can this be winnings when I spent $17.50 to sit here, $1.50 for a purple dauber and $7.50 for a round of drinks, not counting the $2.50 tip for Big Al the bartender? With this $20, I’m still down nine bucks.”

“That’s your problem. Sign here.”

Upon the long-awaited bathroom break intermission between Bingo games, I raced into the Moose Lodge No. 1894 bar for an emergency Bloody Mary with a salted rim. Not that I needed higher blood pressure, but I sure hoped that the salt would replenish some of the nutrients that I no doubt lost during the perspiration of Bingoness.

Have you ever experienced a Bingo headache?

Is it not enough that I was yelled at for sitting in someone’s special chair?

Is it not enough that my Vernors was confiscated because of the unposted “no drinks allowed during Bingo” rule.

What did these Moose (Meese?) think?

That this was some sort of election and we should not drink until the polls were closed?

What about the sound of the pounding of the double dauber lady? She daubed so fast and firm that our table vibrated.

And despite the fact that she was playing her own six to 10 cards, she was looking at my charts and unmarked numbers like some of the boot camp Marines at Parris Island who used to cheat looking at my test answers.

If we could put some of these Bingo freaks to work at the airports, we’d have the most secure airport security in the world.

These Bingo folks can multi-task.

They can watch a TV screen, listen to an announcer, double-daub and correct the marking errors of their table neighbors, all while talking about their grandchildren’s expectation of inheritances.

These Bingo folks, if given a game card at airport security, could detect a flask of mineral water dumped on the Depends of a passenger.

You ain’t sliding one by a Bingoist.

If Bingo were a political party, we’d never have a deficit or a national debt.

It would sure give new meaning to the civil servant rating of G-12.

If Bingo were a political party, most of our elected officials would be retired widows who could solve political problems faster than it takes to make a corn-starch free brown gravy.

You know, maybe this is what I need to do.

Forget entertainment and pursue politics.

I could run on the Bingo ticket.

My supporters would be trained in the finest American Legions, Moose Lodges and casinos of our land.

We could join hands, armed with colored daubers, and mark our way to Coupeville.

If the ground swell went well, baring wetlands issues, we could have three county commissioners from the Bingo Party, daubing in unity, each with their own color, each with their own prize winnings, which would return to the county coffers in the form of tax revenues.

I can see the signs now.

Welcome to Whidbey, where B-I-N-G-O is the official song and Politics is the Game-O!