Due to changing definitions of the pastime, I’m about to make an announcement about which I’m still just a bit sheepish.
Here goes . . .
I’m becoming a cornholer!
I’m into it. I spend about 30 minutes or so each day cornholing. I anticipate I’ll soon become a better cornholer and if you ever want to spend an hour or so cornholing with me just give me a call.
I’m free to cornhole with you and your cornholing friends anytime you like.
Those statements would have been controversial among the guys with whom I learned the facts of life.
In fact, if I’d have said to Ben I wanted to — nudge, nudge — cornhole with him, it’s likely he’d have slugged me. Ben used to steal his old man’s porn and share it and all his worldly wisdoms with us up in the woods behind the junior high school.
Ben thought cornholing was the most deviant thing consenting adults could do — and that was about 35 years before a disgusted Justice Scalia weighed in.
Today, it seems all America is cornholing. They’re cornholing at tailgates, garage parties, and at family picnics where loving cousins can today cornhole till their hearts delight.
Some sources say the game originated with 19th century German settlers in Cincinnati, coincidentally the long-time base of Hustler Magazine publisher Larry Flynt, a renown venue for what I guess you could call “old-school” cornholers.
The game — the wholesome one as opposed to the some hole one — didn’t start pinging my radar until I guess about 20 years ago.
I’d see younger men and women at tailgates heaving beanbags and my curiosity would be piqued. I’d ask about the game.
“Oh, it’s cornhole,” they’d say. “Wanna try?”
Not wanting to hurt the feelings of these innocents, I’d decline, stifle my giggles, and dash back to my buddies to snicker our default ridicule.
If they only knew.
But the cornhole craze swept the nation as I stood by aghast.
Couldn’t they call it something that was untainted by porn connotations, let alone shady corn connotations?
Times have changed. I say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
The turning point for me came when I was gifted daily access to what may be Westmoreland County’s premier cornhole court.
It is, in fact, right here in my office.
As you may now know, my office is the entire third floor of the historic Tin Lizzy in Youngstown.
My working space is one slim room overlooking Main Street and the town’s one traffic light. But there are 11 other rooms in which I’m free to ramble.
But the best room is the spacious corner room with the turret windows.
In it running the length of the room is a cornhole court complete with regulation boards painted in camo. It is my understanding favored locals are invited after hours to play.
I’ve never been invited, a shocking breach in Youngstown society etiquette.
Don’t feel bad for me, though.
With day-long unfettered access to the court, I often wander over there and grind away at the old cornhole all by myself, the very thought of which would lead the head of my old friend Ben to detonate.
So it looks like cornholing is here to stay. The last hold-out is now on board, so to speak.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what the game’s popularity is doing to the heirloom porn industry.
It must infuriate XXX casting directors to hear about some young stud who excels at cornholing and call him up for that perfect role.
The scene is set. The recipient prepared and in position. The director yells, “Action!”
I imagine the whole production dissolving into angry confusion when the up-and-comer reaches into his pants and whips out four beanbags.
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