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This morning. Mass
hasn't started yet, so I'm perusing the bulletin. And quite
involuntarily I let out this muffled snort, which muffledness causes a
nose bubble; I'm making throat snorts trying to suppress more.
We've all been there, right? MoSup gives me an elbow,
but I can't stand it. I'm at the point where a full gale of
laughter is about to escape, so I get up and walk outside until I had it
under control.
Back in the pew MoSup looks at me a "what?" look. I point to the bulletin and
it all comes back again. I'm hemorrhaging inside, but then mass is beginning and I sober. After Mass I explain to
the wife what sent me off, and she said "What? It's a game where ... ."
I'm almost hysterical, even now, just writing this. My
understanding of "Corn Holing" is altogether different than hers.
Am I alone here, or what? I mean think of it. A Corn Hole
tournament! I'm dying here boss.
 Wait—I'm
reminded of this (which I may have mentioned before) similar
thing. I was an alter boy at St. Francis, and once a month (or
maybe once a week?) the entire (grammar) school body trotted over to the church for stations
of the cross, a Catholic rite that venerates Christ's crucification
agony. The Priest reads a devotion at each of 14 stations
(plaques placed along the church walls), and worshippers respond
with a prayer. There are three altar boys who accompany; Joey
Schmidt had the cross, Danny Jankoviac and me were acolytes (candles). Now, this is a big deal for us altar boys because we
are on display before all the girls.
But we know!
We know that when we get to station 13, the phrase "The Body of Jesus is taken down from the
Cross and laid in Mary's bosom"
will be uttered. Bosom.
And it wasn't just me, it was all three of us
who dreaded it, because we knew we would again have to fight off smirks,
let alone laughter. Principal, Sr.
Margaret Eleanor, would be watching, and God help us if
we did. That's the stage.
When we got
to '13'
I bent my head down, trying to hide any expression from Sr.M.E.
My head, with hair loaded with some greasy, and very flammable, as it
turns out, pomade was torched by the candle! I didn't know
my hair was on fire; I was waiting for "bosom"
to be over, and here's Father Theissen beating me about the head, and
I hear gales of laughter from the peanut gallery. Swear to God, I
thought that a smirk had given me away and I was being pummeled for
this act of heresy. I am not making this up.
Bosom and Corn Holes are never mentioned in polite company where I come from. If you're 12 yrs. old.
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