Chicken Shit Bingo at Ginny's Little Longhorn
Sissy, whose bowels can make or break you.
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Like it or not, tourist attractions are part of this city, too. But do they deserve the bad rap they get from grizzled locals? Decider takes an ongoing, objective look at the cold, hard facts of establishments that largely exist to draw in transients in Tourist Trap. In this edition, we look at one of the city's longest-running, redneck-iest diversions: Chicken Shit Bingo at Ginny's.
Wired says: “During South By Southwest, out-of-town showgoers are increasingly seeking out a popular local institution: Chicken Shit Bingo, Austin's answer to Las Vegas' craps.”
Decider says:
There’s no need to wait for SXSW to experience the wonders of Chicken Shit Bingo at Ginny’s Little Longhorn Saloon (just north of the giant neon Arby’s hat on Burnet). On any given Sunday, head down around 3 p.m.—especially if you’re interested in finding a seat. Ginny’s is roughly the size of a two-car garage and there are only nine tables; by the time the band starts at 4, the party is spilling out from both ends into the parking lot, where grizzled regulars rub elbows with slumming hipsters and curious tourists. Before the main event begins, load up on $2 bottles of Lone Star and free hot dogs, but be advised that the self-serve frankfurter station is no place for squeamish types plagued by visions of grubby hands ripping through buns and sloshing around in relish.
The musical entertainment alone is worth the nonexistent price of admission, with rootsy country acts like Dale Watson, Redd Volkaert, and Gary Claxton And Flat Top Jones boom-chicka-booming the crowd into a ramblin’, gamblin’ mood well before bingo tickets go on sale around 5 p.m. The line forms along the pool table, which has been covered by a chicken coop with a nine-by-six checkerboard floor for the occasion. Tickets may only be $2, but it’s worth $114 if the star of the hour, Sissy the chicken, happens to do her business on the square marked with your number. Sissy does three shows every Sunday, roughly on the hour, although the timetable is obviously subject to the whims of her digestive process. (Sissy has been on the job for two years, replacing previous champion pooper Red. As in Highlander, there can only be one: Ginny’s brief attempt at maintaining two chicken shitters simultaneously was unsuccessful.)
Tourist Trap? No way. From the duct-taped barstool seats to the stacks of Waylon and Willie eight-track tapes to the beer-and-tear-stained dance floor, Ginny’s is as authentically Austin as the UT Tower or Leslie’s thong. Around here nothing says Sunday Fun Day like cheap beer, free hot dogs, great music, and betting on a bird’s bowel movements.
