Cornhole

It's a cool Friday afternoon in Menomone, WI and it's the last day of term at Stout Lumberjack College. On footpaths all over town, cornhole boards, beanbags and crates of Miller High Life have been brought out onto footpaths, and the hours whiled away aiming said beanbags at said boards.





















I have taken the Greyhound bus from Chicago to Menomonie to visit my buddy Jeff. (I had been told to expect some unusual company on the bus so, when I asked the guy next to me where he was from, I was not in the least bit surprised when he pointed to the sky and said 'up there with God'. Nor was I taken aback when he proceeded to rant incomprehensibly for the next two hours. I could have done without the overpowering smell though. Fortunately he got off in Milwaukee and his replacement, a 95 year old, was much better company; he even offered to buy me dinner at the layover!)

Over the weekend we join some of Jeff's friends at a cabin on Lake Wissota. And what do we end up doing? Playing cornhole. Of course.