by Clayton Moore
I am appalled. My game, neigh my life’s work is irreparably tainted by this foul name. Truly the sound evokes nothing of the cunning nor finesse required to succeed within it. The name is unfit for even the most simple and puerile of games. I am Rupert H. Bingingham, and how dare you call my game Bingo!
Bingo is a lowly, uncivilized title. Bingo is the name of a gimp dog, or perhaps a ill-formed lizard. Bingo is the exclamation one of you peasants makes when you spy a dirty shilling hidden in one of your pig sty dwellings. Bingo is the name of an unclean hick town buried somewhere in the dank West Virginian hills. Can you imagine President Bingo? Can you picture Bingo Hall? Then why is my perfect game titled with such a putrid utterance? Surely Bingo is not its name-o.
Its proper name is Rupert H. Bingingham’s Skill and Strategy Contest. There. Was that so hard? Were you able to stop shoving your mouth with Flamin’ Hot Cheetos long enough to stumble to the end of it? I hope so, for that is truly its proper title. This is the game that tests both your moral fortitude and your intellectual cunning, in less than 15 minutes. Such an impressive and refined game deserves an impressive and refined name. However, If its legitimate title is too lengthy an addition to your lower class vernacular than you may shorten it to Rupert Bingingham’s Contest or perhaps simply refer to it as The Beautiful Game.
Calling my creation bingo is an insult to it, me, and the entire Bingingham family. I spent the better part of three decades perfecting every aspect of the game mechanic, from the numbering on the sheets to the size of the pieces. If it had been titled correctly, in a thousand years it would have been hailed as the game of kings. It was supposed to be my legacy. As the last surviving member of the once proud Bingingham family, I was greatly distressed when I received the diagnosis of impotence after my croquet accident in 1891. Then it arrived. The answer to my prayers. The game that I knew instantly, would change the world forever. The way to preserve the honor and respect my family name commands. Rupert H. Bingingham’s Skill and Strategy Contest was supposed to be my heir, but those wily Parker brothers rendered it as infertile as I. All my time and effort undone in one grotesque abbreviation. I fear I’ve been dealt the same fate as my colleague, Francis P. Candylander.
Clayton is a misguided high schooler who occasionally takes breaks from watching reruns of Star Trek: TNG to write for the internet.