I once went to a Bingo game in Cranston, Rhode Island. I was 13, and I was not only the youngest person in the room, I was the youngest person in the room by something like sixty years. The exception was my father, who had driven his own great aunt to the event and was cowering with me in a corner, while an angry, blue-haired woman with tits down to her corns screeched numbers over the PA. “Father,” I whispered, “these women are scary.” “Yes, son,” he said. “They smell like medicine, and they look like deformed drag queens.” “Father,” I asked, “what’s a drag queen?” (for those were innocent times, and 13-year-olds did not necessarily know what drag queens were, or fisting, or felching, or Santorum). “Don’t ask, son,” he replied. “One day... More >>>