Years back, my mom, sister, and I were perched at a high-top table at Doc’s, dobbing bingo cards while the election results rolled in like a bad VR newsfeed. Picture my mom, a diehard MAGA fan, gleefully marking her card next to my sister, who’d sooner reprogram a holo-billboard to blast “Trump’s a Menace” across the sky. This chaos unfolded before the Bingo Babes—a wild mix of half young professionals running Lewistown’s drone-powered businesses or city council, and half silver-haired legends who could fart loud enough to disrupt a quantum server and get away with it. Fast forward to 2025, and we’re back at the bingo table, my sister dobbing like she’s cracking a crypto wallet while Mom laments the “end of civilization,” gesturing vaguely at the television and whatever fresh headline it’s offering. Same table, same vibes, just a few more robot bartenders slinging drinks. I never thought I’d be the guy jonesing for a weekly bingo sesh, but here I am, a proud Bingo Babe. It’s my Central Montana heartbeat, marking time like the hum of a fusion generator. Since 2015, I’ve huddled with Mom, Sis, and a crew of pals, dropping life’s drama to chase that glorious $31 pot (now $33, thanks to inflation). The clatter of those bingo balls spinning in the cage is as soothing as a retro Wheel of Fortune hologram flickering while I zap my lab-grown burger in the microwave. When COVID hit, bingo was the first to vanish, leaving my life as off-kilter as a glitching hover-tractor. Its return? Like a groundhog dodging its shadow, promising sunny vibes and maybe a rogue AI or two. Wanna join the Bingo Babe tribe?

Here’s the 2025 Code of Conduct:

• Don’t be late. If you’re not there 15 minutes early, you’re not getting that pot. Bingo waits for no one.

• Call Bingo on the last number. Miss it, and you’re as out of luck as a drone with a dead battery. Tragic.

• Worship the Bingo Caller. She is the undisputed queen of the Northwest—slaying in sparkly earrings with a sassy Minnie Mouse voice. Win her homemade banana bread at halftime? You’ve basically won the Metaverse.

• Halftime prizes are sacred. Fridge magnets, chipped Campbell’s mugs, puzzles missing exactly one piece—these relics are the last bastion of human decency. Treat them accordingly.

• Tip like a rockstar. The waitstaff and bingo crew keep the vibes alive. Win big? Toss some digital dollars their way. Sparkly hair clips and good energy don’t pay for themselves.

Being a Bingo Babe is a vibe. You bond with grocery clerks, chiropractors, bartenders, and that old guy who’s basically Lewistown’s human landmark. It’s where Trump-loving moms, Trump-hating daughters, and sex-phobic aunties unite over fried food, sneaky farts, and the thrill of that pot. In 2025, it’s still the best damn game in town—holo-cards or not. 

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