Bunco Group Member – the coveted suburban title to which every soccer mom aspires. In a lost scroll found, archaeologists learned that on the eighth day God created Bunco groups consisting of twelve women. After these first divinely-appointed women, the only way into a Bunco group was/is by death. It’s like Supreme Court Justice Appointments for Mini-van Moms.
I think this is the most absurd thing I can imagine.
And I hope someone dies soon so I can get an appointment to the group in which I’ve served as a sub the last two months.
It takes networking, politicking, and a current member with dangerously high cholesterol to get an appointment to a Bunco group. You could always start your own, but it wouldn’t be recognized as “Original Lineage” by the Garden of Eden Bunco Association—whose motto is “Bringing you the gossip since Eve bit the Apple”—or Southern Baptists.
And don’t get fooled by one of those impostor groups either. If you get invited to a “BunKo” group, steer clear. Every tried and true member of the society knows that it’s BunCo with a big fat “C” and it’s derived from the Latin words “bunimus cominus” which means, “Girrrrrrls, get your biscuit buns over to my house so I can tell you what that tramp down at blah blah blah blah.”
I subbed for a group for two years. My own mother was a member. I still couldn’t get an appointment. One time, Old Miss Louise had a heart attack and my Mom immediately called to let me know it looked like a spot would open. Then her call waiting beeped.
“Hold on and I’ll get rid of them,” she said.
While I waited, I planned the menu for the first night I’d host my new Bunco group. I think Old Miss Louise had June. The cinnamon tortilla chips and pumpkin dip would be refreshing. Or maybe it was January. Those would still work. Pumpkin is holiday-ish.
I heard the familiar click that everyone in the Back to the Future Era knew meant the person was back on the line and my Mom said, “Are you still there?”
It was required when you click back from call waiting to ask that question.
I said, “Yeah.”
“False alarm. Old Miss Louise just had gas from eating down at the Horseshoe Corral.”
And that’s the closest I’ve come so far to getting in.
The last two months, I’ve subbed for another Bunco group. I’d like to say that these ladies are lovely; that they are some of the classiest women in the area. I’d like to, but these are some kind of craaaazzzy ladies.
And exactly the kind of Bunco group I want to join!
I’ve got my target locked and loaded and now all I have to do is sit back and wait for someone to die, or transfer. But even transfers can get tricky. I understand waiting lists are long, and many a man wears on his back the footprints of corporate ladder-climbers all because their wife refused to move for his promotion until a suitable Bunco group could be secured.
It’s that kind of serious!
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