I'm a big hit at parties. Friends ask me to sing B-I-N-G-O all

Host: The bar was a low-lit cavern of brass and laughter, half-swallowed by the haze of cigarette smoke and the buzz of too many stories told too loudly. The walls were lined with dusty records, vintage posters, and the smell of beer and nostalgia.

In the corner, under a flickering neon sign that read "The Rusty Note", Jack sat hunched over a whiskey glass, his grey eyes watching the small stage where Jeeny was holding a microphone—grinning, alive, a little drunk, and utterly free.

She had just finished singing “B-I-N-G-O,” complete with absurd hand gestures and an over-the-top country twang. The crowd was roaring—clapping, cheering, some doubling over with laughter.

Host: The sound wrapped around the room like a long, warm scarf. Even the bartender, who’d been polishing the same glass for ten minutes, was smiling now.

Jack smirked, shaking his head, the ice in his glass chiming softly.

Jeeny: [bowing theatrically] “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! You’ve been an unreasonably forgiving audience!”

Host: She hopped off the stage, her heels clicking against the wooden floor, her eyes catching the dim light as she slid into the seat across from Jack.

Jack: “You know, you could’ve warned me before I became collateral damage in your one-woman variety show.”

Jeeny: “What? You didn’t love my rendition of B-I-N-G-O? I channeled pure chaos and childhood joy.”

Jack: “You channeled something. Not sure joy’s the word I’d use.”

Jeeny: “Oh, come on, Jack. Don’t be such a cynic. Paula Pell said it best—‘I’m a big hit at parties. Friends ask me to sing B-I-N-G-O all the time. I’m thinking, you know, of maybe putting out a Christmas album or something.’ That’s the kind of self-awareness I aspire to.”

Jack: [snorts] “Self-awareness? That was pure self-satire.”

Jeeny: “Exactly! That’s the beauty of it. She’s not taking herself seriously. It’s freedom.”

Host: The band in the back struck up a slow, bluesy tune. The bass thrummed low, almost like a second heartbeat under the laughter.

Jack: “Freedom, huh? That’s what we’re calling making a fool of ourselves in public now?”

Jeeny: “Better than living afraid of looking foolish. You hide behind irony like it’s armor.”

Jack: “Irony is armor.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack—it’s a wall. And you’ve been living behind it for years.”

Host: His jaw tightened. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, eyes fixed on the way it caught the light, like something inside him was burning slow and quiet.

Jack: “You think laughing at yourself makes you brave?”

Jeeny: “It makes you human. Don’t you see? Humor is rebellion against despair. Paula Pell’s not just joking—she’s surviving. She’s saying, ‘I see the absurdity, and I’ll dance in it anyway.’”

Jack: “You make it sound profound. It’s a dog song, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than that. It’s owning the ridiculousness of existence. We’re all clowns at the cosmic circus, Jack. Some of us just admit it sooner.”

Host: A waitress passed by, setting another glass in front of Jeeny, her smile quick but genuine. Outside, the rain started tapping against the windows, syncing with the rhythm of the music.

Jack: “You really think laughter fixes anything?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to fix it. It makes it bearable.”

Jack: “I’ve never seen someone laugh their way through heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “Then you haven’t been to enough comedy clubs.”

Host: He looked at her, that half-smile flickering at the corner of his mouth—the kind that meant he wanted to disagree but couldn’t quite muster the energy.

Jack: “You think humor’s the answer to everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the bridge to everything. It connects us. When we laugh, even at ourselves, we’re saying, ‘You’re not alone in the absurdity.’ Think of Robin Williams—how much light he gave to people, even while fighting his own shadows.”

Jack: “And look how that ended.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “And yet his laughter still saves people. Even now.”

Host: The bar quieted for a moment as the music slowed. The bartender lowered the volume, and for a brief second, the only sound was the rain—a thousand tiny fingers drumming against the glass.

Jack: “You really believe making people laugh matters that much?”

Jeeny: “More than you know. Every joke is a small rebellion. Every laugh, a refusal to surrender.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But not practical.”

Jeeny: “Neither is living, yet we keep doing it.”

Host: She raised her glass, eyes gleaming in the dim light. Jack hesitated, then clinked his glass against hers.

Jack: “So what? You’re saying we should all start singing nursery rhymes at bars now?”

Jeeny: “If it helps. If it keeps someone from feeling like the world’s too heavy.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s everything.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his laugh low but genuine this time. It was rare, that sound—something between a growl and a release.

Jack: “You know, you might be right. Maybe laughter’s the last honest art left.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because you can’t fake it. You can fake love, loyalty, politics—but not laughter. You either feel it or you don’t.”

Jack: “And when you don’t?”

Jeeny: “You sing anyway. That’s the trick.”

Host: The crowd had thinned. The neon sign buzzed softer now, half-lit, half-forgotten. The bartender wiped down the counter, humming something faint and nostalgic.

Jack: “You know what’s funny, Jeeny? For someone who laughs so much, you talk about pain more than anyone I know.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they’re not opposites. They’re twins.”

Host: He nodded slowly, letting that sit between them.

The band began to play again—a slow, crooning version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny: “Maybe one day I really will make that Christmas album.”

Jack: “Would it be tragic or hilarious?”

Jeeny: “Both. The best things always are.”

Host: She smiled—a small, weary smile that felt like both an ending and a beginning. Jack looked at her for a long time, the way you look at something you didn’t know you needed until it’s right in front of you.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Sing it again.”

Jeeny: “What? B-I-N-G-O?”

Jack: “Yeah. But this time, mean it.”

Host: She laughed, then stood, brushing invisible dust off her dress, her eyes alive with mischief. She took the microphone again, the lights catching the shine in her hair.

And as her voice filled the room, absurd and joyful and utterly human, Jack sat back, watching her.

For the first time in a long while, he smiled—not because life made sense, but because it didn’t.

And somehow, that was enough.