 Ryan Perdio contemplates
bingo and political correctness.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since coming out and
coming on to the scene – and I’ve learned plenty – it’s that one should keep a
good distance between oneself and drag queens.
It’s not because these larger-than-life personalities carry
anything infectious. It’s because anyone and anything within spitting distance
is likely to be the subject of their acerbic, unforgiving wit. So it was with a
healthy dose of trepidation that I agreed to a friend’s recent request to come
along for a night of drag bingo.
I’d heard about this event before, where instead of the
usual mild-mannered, apron-wearing nanas pulling out the balls, the bingo
numbers are called by sequin-clad, wig-adorned drag queens. I’d also heard that
it’s probably the only place the game is played where one would prefer not to
win. A guy who did once got paid out for his conspicuous monobrow. The girls
went to town with his “snail trail on forehead” for the rest of the evening.
Daunting, huh?
The night opened with a lively lip-synced performance, followed
by a spirited welcome by the two drag performers, at which point the game
officially began. Numbers upon numbers were soon called, and in between, one
politically-incorrect joke after another. Everything and everyone was fair game:
lesbians, Muslims, Aboriginals and Poms all got their serve. Even midgets
weren’t spared.
The bitchiest comments, however, were reserved for the
attendees. What would normally be frowned upon, I must admit, we found
hilarious; all of us were having a great time. And sitting at the back of the
venue, I felt relatively safe. Until one of the girls turned to our table and
said, “Oh, look. We have Pumpkin’s little brother in the room: Ping-Pong!”
The crowd roared and, to my surprise, so did I! The jokes
came thick and fast. I’d been teased for my Asian background before –
especially in high school – but never had I enjoyed it so. Here was a drag
queen, in all her tragic-looking, ill-fitting, ridiculous get-up, firing it at
me for my ‘Chinky’ eyes and orange-coloured skin. It was so blatantly ludicrous
that I found it nothing but hilarious.
My friends looked at me to see if I was okay. I nodded back,
smiling.
And then just like that, the drag queen moved on to someone
else, and back to calling bingo numbers.
The rest of the night was much of the same: numbers, jokes,
performances and drinks. Eventually it came to the last game of the evening. I
hadn’t won anything, except maybe a few choice words, but I was determined to
come away a winner. I crossed the numbers off my cards one by one, eager to get
the final prize, until only one was left behind. A few more balls were called
without any luck and then finally, the one I’ve been waiting for popped out.
“Bingo!” I yelled.
“Oh, Ping-Pong has bingo!” the drag queen proclaimed as she
motioned for me to come up.
I headed to the stage.
“So, Ping-Pong, what’s your name?”
“Ryan. My name is Ryan.”
“Ryan?” she said with some surprise. “That isn’t very Asian,
is it?”
“Nope, but you know what?”
“What?”
“I still win the final prize!”
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Opinion 
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