Although both really old people AND their bingo markers are the bomb, you should probably hit The Underground Rebel Bingo Club instead, finally cruising into Miami for one-night-only of numbered boards, boobs, and potentially, numbered boobs. The mania was schemed when two Brits drunkenly played around with a bingo kit in a church hall basement, before gradually taking over bigger/less-God-fearing basements for something they call "addictive and shameful", but hey, so’s Pan Am! The deets on this are quite intentionally kept under wraps, but here's some dirt:
While it’s technically bingo, it's also basically a club with a fully stocked bar, massive amounts of standing room, abundant video screens, DJs, and a ton of flashing lights, especially if the DJ is still hung up on that Kanye album.
Everyone gets a marker and card, before hot tatted-up girls take the stage to scream numbers via dirty little rhymes like "grab my mitts, 66", except it’s not mitts at all. It’s “tar pits”. Fine, that’s a lie too. It means “boobs”.
The only rules are things like "no old or boring people", and the dress code is described as "undercover on your way there, dangerous once you're inside", so make sure the covers you wear there are like, made of Egyptian cotton knives or something.
People they deem to be “losers” are publicly torn apart, while any winner is deemed "a god", and greeted on stage with hugs and prizes like a giant stuffed panda or an inflatable pool. (Psst: take the giant panda, inflatable pools are for poor people).
You'll actually need a "cover story" for the doorman to even get into the joint, because under no circumstances are you actually there for Rebel Bingo -- good you're there for the Pan Am viewing party! Christina Ricci...va va voom!
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