I just had to take a moment away from what I was doing and record for posterity this historic occasion.
At lunch, today, it was clear that the last corn dog was up for grabs. I seized it easily, being the closest, but the other interested party, 10-year-old Boy #1, wasn’t about to let that be the end of it. Before I knew it, I was fending off hands and arms that seemed to be reaching for the corn dog from all sides simultaneously.
Still, I was confident. Boy #1 normally loses such contests. After all, I’m bigger, smarter, etc. Surely this would be like the many other battles for food supremacy that had occurred before — battles I had easily won (a fact which my girth capably demonstrates).
But, alas, this time was to be different. After several tense moments of successfully defending my possession of the last corn dog against his relentless assault, I thought I was on the cusp of victory when I believed I had his arms twisted in a fashion that would not allow him to use them. So, thinking I was free to begin my victorious scarfing, I moved in for the bite that would represent the coup de grâce. BUT, before I knew what was happening, my underestimated opponent freed one arm and grabbed the corn dog right off the stick, leaving me with the equivalent of a pathetically thin and greasy tongue depressor and him with the full prize: dog & batter. (I know too well — as do those who have wrestled for corn dogs throughout history — that there is truth in the haunting, centuries-old, lyrical refrain: “Dog ‘n’ batter’s all that matters.”)
Perhaps out of an understanding of the truth of Acts 20:35, Boy #1 did happily and voluntarily share the spoils with me, and there was much rejoicing. (Of course, the rejoicing might have been a bit more jubilant on my part if I didn’t have to keep looking at that gleeful look that seemed irremovably pasted across the face of my young opponent.) And I’m sure that he and I will look back years from now and see this as a turning point — the first step in a changing of the guard.
So, let March 24 be annually celebrated henceforth as a commemoration of The Great Corn Dog Battle of 2008. Let the minstrels of future ages tell their tales, but we will ever be able to say: We were there.
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(By the way, I have tried to make this post acceptable for readers from all over the globe by being a bit flexible with my vocabulary. As many Texans know, the proper name for the treat in question is “corny dog” not “corn dog”. However, I like to show off my bilingual skills on occasion.)