Most people will think of that stupid song B – I – N-G-O, B – I – N-G-O, B – I – N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-o, when reading that title but you couldn’t be further off from the truth. The other truth no one wants to think about is that the dog that song is based off of is LONG dead by now. Just a dead dog that’s been dead and we just keep singing about him. It’s almost heroic.

Anyway, this post isn’t about Bingo, the dog, but rather Bingo, the Gerbil.


My parents didn’t want us to have joy when we were growing up so they never got my sister and I a dog. Now that I’m an adult I totally understand why though.

Childhood over.

It wasn’t that they wanted to deprive us of joy, it was more that they had a small pocket of time during the day where they could find their own inner-peace and didn’t want to waste it walking a dog outside in the snow and cleaning up its shit. They had two kids, their days of cleaning shit were almost over.

We would plead for hours at a time about how amazing it would be to have a cute dog that we could play with and that we would, of course, take care of.

Our parents knew better. I could hardly keep my room clean and now I was going to be responsible for a living creature that needed to be trained to not eat it’s own poop?

Not likely.

So our parents did the next most logical thing, they got us a gerbil. I’m still not sure if it was a practice run, like my sister and I were playing baseball in AAA and we needed to bat 1.000 to make it to the majors. We were being talked about in all the trades and the scouts were starting to take notice of how great we were.

And then our bats went cold.

We were deep in the longest slump of our lives and couldn’t correct it. But that’s to be expected when you’re taking care of A PET THAT HAS TO BE IN A FUCKING GLASS CAGE 100% OF THE TIME.

If these stupid rodents even got a hint of freedom they would b-line it straight for the walls where they would burrow into them eventually making them their coffin.


The truth is a gerbil is only entertaining for about 3 days tops. All is does is sleep, poop little pellets, drink from that over-sized – filled once every 10 years – water bottle (which is super cute), and have mini panic attacks whenever we slammed on the glass for it to entertain us. We were the kings and this little furry animal was our court jester.

The wheel is overrated. First of all it’s a death trap for ANY animal. Also it’s kind of sad. In their dumb little minds they are running miles and probably think their escape is imminent until they hop off and realize their sad existence is all they will know.

It’s enjoyable for us though because if they slip and end up taking a ride on that wheel we don’t see it as a suicide attempt but a foolish mistake by a dumb, dumb, dumb, animal. But who really is the dumb one, folks? Remember we are sitting there being entertained by a rodent who will do anything they can to escape their confined area.

Simple, simple humans.

I’m not sure if Bingo got an idea from reading some of the newspapers we placed on the bottom of his cage, but he had a plan for his escape and it all came to fruition one day.

My sister really had no fear. She would take Bingo out of his cage, feed him with her bare hands, and that’s really all you can do with a gerbil. Since I was younger I wanted to do everything that she did. But, if you know anything about me, I was – kinda still am – afraid of pretty much everything.

I saw my sister feeding Bingo by hand one day so that meant I needed to do it. I followed her lead exactly. Took the extremely small pellet of food, that even the most accurate of snipers couldn’t hit from point blank range, and proceeded to put my hand inside the cage of an animal that is skiddish and always on-edge.

“He’ll be so happy that I fed him by hand.” Or something like that was going through my head.

My sister and I got along very well, but there is something in the back of my mind that has always thought if this was her plan all along she’s an evil genius.

As it turns out Bingo does not have the aim of a highly trained sniper at point blank range. In fact his aim was TERRIBLE!

Blasted! He must’ve been reading those damn papers!

Suddenly pain flows through my right index finger and I pull it out of the cage where Bingo is firmly attached. His teeth cut right through my finger and I can feel him hanging on for dear life as I flung him around my head in a helicopter motion. He must have felt so liberated spinning horizontally. After a few moments he released his grip and went soaring through the air like a majestic eagle or a flying squirrel. Then Bingo hit the wall with a loud thud and stuck to it with all four of his legs spread wide. He then began sliding down and disappeared.

No one had any idea where he had gone and no one was really paying attention considering the amount of damage he just did to my finger. I stood there screaming as my finger bled uncontrollably and my mom immediately got on the phone with the doctor to see if I had rabies because of this insane monster of a pet they gave us.


Eventually we all calmed down and thankfully I don’t have rabies, but my head is still attached to my neck so we don’t actually know for sure.

After that moment we never really had pets in the house, save for a turtle that used to try and commit suicide every day of it’s life.

Maybe it’s good we didn’t have a dog.

My finger is still intact and although my sister and I never got called to the majors, no one could ever deny that I had a great throwing arm.


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