Little known fact about me: Corn is my favorite late night snack. Be it Del Monte, Green Giant, or the various generic brands perched upon your local grocery stores canned produce aisle’s shelving, I’ll stick that metal cylinder under the unyielding blade of my super-finicky can opener, which, interestingly enough, doubles as a knife sharpener, and watch the hypnotic revolutions until that little aluminum disc plops into the water below and I find myself wishing I’d wiped off the top of the can before beginning my journey to Husker’s Utopia. I splash the contents into a bowl, drop in a tablespoon of butter (the real stuff, not that cholestoral-challenged, Fabio-endorsed, marginally-palatable shit), and microwave on high for one-and-a-half minutes. Removing my steamy goodness, I revel in the wispy aromas of Nebraskan fillies and crop circles. Make no mistake, I’ll make like a hyperactive typewriter on a full cob, but I prefer niblets over what was once considered an adequate means of wiping one’s ass. (Seriously, if it wasn’t for the Sears Roebuck catalog and corn cobs, our forefathers would’ve had to do work, possibly with a sock or bare hand. Thank you, Big Black. If you got that reference, I love you like a sibling.)
Corn can be enjoyed in many different ways. There’s cornbread and fried corn fritters. Roasted on the cob. Mixed and stewed with tomatoes, lima beans, and okra (Sufferin’ succotash!), and the list goes on. You can make corn syrup with it, but it’s only good in moderation, or so they say… cue dramatic dun, dun, DUN! Like humans, corn comes in a variety of pleasing hues: black corn, white corn, yellow, orange, and red corn – corn’s not racist. It loves you no matter your ethnicity. You can even decorate your hillbilly cabin with dried out husks and cobs of multicolored kernels the color of your poorly-managed dental work. And don’t forget, the piece de la renaissance (NAILED IT!), mo’ frakkin POPCORN, son! Butter those fluffly tuffs of tasteless cardboard until they resemble sallow nose evacuations, or sprinkle on a little cheddar seasoning (The more neon orange the better; we wouldn’t want your hands looking anything less than jaundiced. Because nothing say good eatin’ like kidney failure!). Some lacking in mental clarity create a sugary bastardization of our beloved movie theater snack called kettle corn. This abomination is not quite caramel corn, and leagues away from digestible. If you remember nothing else throughout your stay on this revolving rock remember this: Friends do not let friends eat kettle corn. It’s a gateway drug. Next thing you know, you and your buddies will be freebasing candy corn behind the Spirit Halloween Outlet. Nobody likes a corny junkie.
Now we descend into darker territory. Pull up your boot straps and tuck the kids into bed. We about to get adult in this biotch!
No matter how much you chew, whether or not you blend or cream or dice your corn with samurai-like proficiency, these little bastards will, with the utmost certainty, reform in your lower intestines like the self-healing nanobots they are. If you are of a healthy constitution, you’ll drop a yellow-spotted caterpillar into your porcelain oasis. And Tom Cruise forbid you have a case of explosive anal discharge (Thank you, Olestra!). For if you do, you’ll soon know how a tommy gun feels whilst spraying a muddy lake with bullets. We won’t even broach the subject of “cornholing.”
So, to all you starch-loving, corn-husking, stalk-fetish aficionados, enjoy your corn. I know I do.
My name is Edward Lorn and I approve this message.