OurDad started it. He hit me with corn, but I would not give in!
Who'd have thought that fresh unshucked Michigan bicolor could be such a formidable weapon in the hands of OurDad. The first blow struck my shoulder; I ducked the next and ran. But it was no retreat: I headed around and though the living and dining room and back into the kitchen where the last remaining ear of corn lay unprotected.
OurDad had fallen for it and chased me around the house only to find me his armed equal upon his return to the kitchen. He was right on my tail, and when I grabbed the corn I wheeled on him, "Ha!" With a viscous swing I struck at him sure to end the battle with a single shocking blow, but surprise was not enough. He parried, and with two hands upon the corn he struck back. I blocked his counter and ran for the safety of the far side of the kitchen table.
From our separate sides of the table we crossed ears again and again, and then OurDad ran round the table. I fled-- the battle now spilling out of control and with GreatMom sitting peacefully at the computer in the living room the fight raged on around her. "Would you two stop it." "Never!" We both declared. On we fought I did my best to counter his attacks, but I was forced into retreat again and again by his crashing two handed strikes. Around the house we battled sending silk threads flying about the house, and as the ears continued to clash the shucks began to give way and with each new blow the sweet juicy kernels flew like sparks.
I was becoming tired and hungry, but OurDad raged on. GreatMom pleaded, but was helpless to stop us. Once out of earshot I asked "Is this what Mom means when she says, 'Don't Play with your food." OurDad laughed, and the distraction was enough. I saw an opening, and with a mighty blow I struck him square in the chest. Corn silks and juice splattered across his shirt, but it was not enough to deter him. He brought the corn down upon my head. I was showered with squished and soggy kernels. I screamed for him to stop, but drew back and parried and countered now fueled on by raw anger and raw corn. With each new blow the more sparks of kernel, shuck, silk and juice flew from our swords of maize. Until it happened. The glorious blow that should have ended it. His corn cob cracked and half of it flew across the diningroom. Victory should have been mine! But OurDad, who can't accept losing, struck back with renewed vigor, but I thwarted his attack and his corn broke again.
"HA! Surrender for I am the Lord of the Corn!", I declared.
"OK THAT"S IT," roared GreatMom. "I declare the GirlChild victorious, but you still have to help clean up this mess." she said to me, and then to OurDad she said, "And then you have to cook dinner-- including that corn."
And so with
the Corn that was Broken a new age dawned an age of victorious women and girls.
Actually we just cleaned up. It was a pretty big mess with corn silks, shucks and kernels on the floor and even on furniture. Then, as commanded by GreatMom, OurDad tossed the corn into the microwave and we ate it. It was really tender. Who knew you could make Michigan's sweet bicolor even better!
It was the most fun we'd had all day-- heck all week.
We are definitely going to the Farmers Market tomorrow.
He and his team the Disco boys grabbed it on the second day of the race. It was a joke. They had no competition at all, and walked away with the overall win for George with little effort. It really was the world class verses the rednecks of cycling. Don't believe it was a redneck event: On stage 2 a rider hit a road kill armadillo. He crashed resulting in a broken collar bone and was forced to abandon the race. That will never ever happen in Europe.
