A parody of Joe Biden's Corn Pop story and the author Chuck Tingle. Misspellings intentional.


Once upon a time, on the mean streets of Wilmington, Delaware's east side, there lived a lifeguard named Boe Jiden.

Tall and tan with wavy black hair, crystal blue eyes, and proud, rippling pecs, Jiden was the son of a balding used car salesman whose entire stock was only driven by little old ladies to church. In high school, he played football, strutted through the halls like a cocksure rooster, and made embarrassing gaffs every time he opened his mouth - he once called one of his friends "an old butt buddy," and claimed that "black children are just as smart as human children."

It's not that he was racist, he was not, but even at seventeen, he was old and out of touch and told long, rambling stories like the uncle who always shows up at family reunions tipsy and sentimental.

After graduating, he took a job as a lifeguard at the municipal pool because his father didn't want him around the car lot - he kept sniffing people and making them uncomfortable. Fearful of losing yet another job and having to run for Congress, he followed the employee handbook to the letter. No running. No splashing. No diving. He even made you wait a half hour after you ate to swim. Sitting high on his lofty chair like a Greek god, glistening with sun tan lotion and clad in a speedo and sunglasses, he scanned the pool and environs for infractions, and if he saw one, he'd lift off his toned and touchable tush, curl his senusous lips around the whistle, and blow. Toot. Toot. No one was safe: Old people, young people, black people, women - Jiden blew the book at everyone.

At first, he did this simply because it was his job, and he was committed to being the bestest lifeguard Wilmington had ever known. Soon, though, the power went straight to his head. Ordering people around made him feel like a big man and gave him strange feelings in his white, middle class pee-pee. After six months, he was beginning to think that maybe he would run for Congress. If he worked hard and spent decades in obscurity, he might even become a more charismatic Democrat's comic foil - when the administration needed to distract the public from something, the CIA would make and dissiminate a new Boe Jiden meme. If he was really lucky, he might one day blunder into being the Democratic Party's best shot at retaking the White House from a sociopathic billionaire.

He could see himself on the debate stage now: Flanked on either side by a 90-year-old socialist and a woman who went on and on about how prviliedged white people are, but pretended to be Native American at one point to get ahead in life. Even with a long history of blunders, missteps, and embarrassing comments, he would be the best choice because everyone else would be so far left of the average Democratic voter.

Anyway, Boe got his rocks off bossing everyone around. While most people listened and did what he said, a few didn't.

Like Corn Pop.

Corn Pop never listened to Boe and that made Boe mad. Who has the whistle here, punk? Me, I have the whistle, that means I'm in charge. A tall, light-skinned black man with a slicked back pompadour like Little Richard (a Negro artist to whom Boe listened listened on his telvision excuse me record player at night), Corn Pop was the leader of a local gang called the Veggie Boys. His crew included Lil' Turnip, Money Pea, and Apsparagus Andy. They were a fearsome group who controlled half a basketball court and two picnic tables at the local park. At various times during the day, you could find them playing B-ball or listening to scary music on their transistor radio. One time, Boe clearly heard the ominous wail of Chubby Checker and his blood ran cold. Anyone who listens to Chubby Checker must be a mad dog killer.

Corn Pop and his friends liked to hang out at the pool and disobey the rules. Boe blew his whistle (toot, toot, fellas), but they ignored it. They splashed one another, talked too loud, and dove head first into the water, which ws really, really dangerous. Boe was downright petrified of the black youths, but his desire to be the best won out and he treated them just like everyone else. He kicked Corn Pop out once for swimming too fast, and glaring at him over the chain link fence, Corn Pop jabbed his finger at him. "Imma come back here and cut yo white ass open. Blowin' that whistle and shit. Nigga, you trippin' with that."

"I'm doing my job, Popcorn," Boe said tightly. He didn't mean to fudge the black man's name, it just came natural.

"Can't no one do a goddamn thing around here," Corn Pop said. "Anyone so much as move, you get up in they face. Yo' ass need to chill."

Another time, Corn Pop and his friends were huddled in a group in the shallow end of the pool. Boe craned his neck to see what they were doing...just as Money Pea accidentally dropped his transistor radio into the water.

Tearing at his face in a guestue of mind-bending madness, Boe let out a womanish scream, sure that the electral current would zap everyone into a watery grave.

It didn't.

Boe threw them out, and Corn Pop waved him off. "There he go trippin' again."

"Your shenanigans aren't welcome here, Cornpone. Go to another pool."

"Nigga, this is 1962, all the other pools are segregated."

Last week, Boe spotted a woman sitting on the edge with her feet in the water. He went over to sniff her hair, but Corn Pop came up behind him with a pair of sisccors, cut the little necklace thingie holding his whistle, and held it up like a trophy. "I got it! I finally got it! We never gotta hear this shit again!"

A thunderous cheer went up, blacks, whites, grown ups, and kids all elated that Boe Jiden's hateful whistle had been silenced.

Boe seethed. "Give it back, Candy Corn!"

"Come and get it," Corn Pop said and started to run.

Flushed with rage, Boe gave chase, bare feet slapping the concrete. Corn Pop held the whistle up, the lanyard streaming behind him like a banner. His shoulder blades flexed beenath his wet, glistening flesh, and he smirked cockily over his shoulder. Boe's heart skipped an inexplicable beat, his and step slowed. Corn Pop valted over the fence, landed on the other side, and kept on going. Boe stopped and shook his fist like the fumbling old man he would one day be. "Damn you, Corn on the Cob!"

Boe was furious and resolved to take revenge.

He waited impatiently for the Veggie Boys to return, but each day came and went without them, and Boe was beginning to think they were gone for good. Today, he sat on his perch with his long, powerful legs crossed and his naked chest baking in the summer sun. He wore sunglasses and sunscreen on his nose, because there's no hiding the lifeguard look. A dozen people frollicked in the pool, and he was just itching to blow his new whistle.

Suddenly, a sound reached his ears.

A soundy sound.

A sound that sounded like…

GASP.

He sat up straight.

Chubby Checker.

He lifted his sunglasses. The Veggie Boys approached from the west, six black men walking in a tight V formation, Corn Pop at the head. They all wore sunglasses, swim trunks, and leather jackets, and with each step, they snapped.

"Dear God," Boe muttered.

They entered the pool area through the gate and dispersed. Corn Pop fingered his hair and looked around, getting the lay of the land. He saw Boe, and a mocking smile crept across his lips. Boe's jaw clenched, and he sat back down, his arms crossing sullenly over his begging-to-be fondled man-bosom. It's not fair, he thought and stuck his bottom lip out. He stole my whistle.

Without removing their jackets, the Veggie Boys waded into the pool and stood in a circle. Boe slipped his glasses back on and threw his head back. The fabric of the speedo clung to the fullness of his masculinity, and his was decidedly aware of its shape, purpose, weight, and grth. A cool breeze blew, and his nipples stiffened like two cherry buds begging to plucked and nibbled. He had half a mind to let Corn Pop and the others do whatever they wanted. What point was there in trying to stop them?

A loud splash brought him back to reality, and he sat up, his penis shifting positions and resting limply against his inner thigh. Corn Pop, jacket gone, broke the surface and shook droplets of water from his head like a lithe, graceful dog.

Boe's eyes narrowed. "Hey! No diving!"

Corn Pop ignored him.

Thinking fast, Boe came up with the mother of all burns - he would compare Corn Pop to a woman, because there's nothing worse than being a woman, is there? I mean...he's already black. "Hey, Esther Williams!"

Corn Pop froze.

Ha.

Got'cha.

Slowly, the ruffian turned, and Boe's stomach clutched.

The look upon Corn Pop's face was dark.

Murderous.

Gulp.

"The fuck did you just call me?"

Boe's first instinct was to walk the comment back, like all Democratic politicians do, but he stood his ground. "I called you Esther Williams," he said.

For a moment, nothing happened, then Corn Pop launched himself at the ladder. Money Pea and Jam Master Beet grabbed him and held him back, much to Boe's great relief. "You motherfuckin' honky motherfucker, I was just playin' with'cho ass, now I really am gonna stck ya."

Boe's heart sank.

The Veggie Boys pulled their leader away, and then left. "When you get off, yo' ass is mine, nigga!" Corn Pop called over his shoulder.

When they were gone, Boe started to hyperventilate. Corn Pop was really mad. Stupid, stupid, why did he call him that? WHY?

Sigh. It wouldn't be the first time he said something really fucking stupid, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

All that day, Boe worried incessantly over the coming confrontation with Corn Pop. At lunch, he sought out his friend and mentor Ol' Pete. Pete, bald and pleasenrly plump, was an old black man who largely conforms to the Super Duper Magical Negro stock character - an African-American bit player who has special insights or magical powers and comes to the aid of white, liberal protaonists...just like every black person in every Stephen King novel ever. Pete just happene to be sitting at a picnic table outside the pool when Boe walked up. Boe sat across from him, propped his elbows on the splintery wood, and held his face in his hands.

"What be da matter there, Massa Jiden?" Pete asked kindly.

"I goofed, Pete," Boe said, "I goofed bad."

"Come now, Massa Jiden, Ol' Pete shoo it cain't be dat bad.'

Taking a deep breath, he said, "You know Corn Pop? I called him Esther Williams."
Shocked silence.

"Nigga, he gon' whip yo' ass."

Boe let out a strangled sob. "I know. What should I do?"

Pete thought for a second, then leaned to one side, reached into his pocket, and pulled something out. "Best I reckon," he said, "is you whip his ass first."

He held a heavy chain across the table, and Boe took it.

The pool closed at seven that evening. After Boe saw the last person out (stealing a quick sniff of their hair as they passed), he grabbed the chain Pete gave him, locked up, and left by the main gate. Standing there in the gathering gloom, he took a deep, fortifying breath and braced himself for what was to come.

His car was parked in a lot to the left of the pool. He was unlocking it when they surrounded him, the Veggie Boys, all snapping. Boe swallowed and turned to face them. Corn Pop waved his hand, and the snaps petered out. "Told you yo' ass was mine," Corn Pop said. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a swtich blade.

Boe tensed.

Corn Pop pressed a button, and a comb flicked out with startling speed. He ran it through his hair, then closed it and shoved it back into his pocket.

Boe exhaled through his nose. "Look, Unicorn," he said and rubbed the back of his neck, not quite able to meet the black man's eyes, "I owe you an apology. I should have never called you Esther Williams. That was wrong. And in front of all your friends, I sincerely apologize. But if you bounce on the board like that again, I'm still going to throw you out." As he spoke, he stared frankly and forthrightly into Corn Pop's eyes, and faint butterfly wings fluttered against the inside walls of his stomach.

He never realized how handsome Corn Pop was.

The Veggie Boys looked from Boe to their leader and back again. Corn Pop darted his eyes shanefully to the ground. "I guess I've been kind of a jerk too," he confessed. "I just...nigga, seein' yo' ass in that little speedo get me mad 'cause...you know...I kinda like it."

Boe swallowed thickly. He was flushed from head to toe, and his heart gently pounded. His and Corn Pop's gazes met and held, and Boe had the oddest sensation of falling.

Neither one of them made the first move. One minute they were admiring each other, the next they were French kissing, their bodies mashed together and their hands roaming over the other's firm, clenched butt. The Veggie Boys all gaped, and Money Pea shook his head as though he coudn't believe what he was seeing.

Corn Pop's tongue urgently caressed Boe's, and the taste of the black man's lips flooded his mouth, steeping his brain and intoxicating his senses. Boe explored every crease and crevice of his mouth and lightly grinded against him.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Apsparagus Andy asked.

Corn Pop pushed Boe against the side of the car, and Boe slipped his hands down the back of Corn Pop's trunks. Corn Pop broke from Boe's lips and attacked his neck with hungry kisses; Boe moaned through his teeth and rocked his hips into Corn Pop's rapidly inflating rod'o'love.

"'Ight, fuck this," Jam Master Beet said.

"I'm not fucking with this dude anymore," Lil' Turnip said with a sad shake of his head.

They drifted off, and Boe and Corn Pop moved into the back seat of Boe's car in a whirlwind of lust. Boe pushed Corn Pop's jacket off and ran his trembling hands over the black man's chisled chest, and Corn Pop cupped Boe's cheek in his hand, reducing the future veep to warm, quaking jelly. Corn Pop leaned in and claimed Boe's lips in a needy kiss, and Boe lost himself to passion.

Corn Pop tugged at Boe's speedo, and jamming his thumbs into the waistband, Boe yanked it down, freeing his primal heat. His penis popped out like a fleshy jack-in-the-box, a silvery bead of precum drizzling along its lenght like honey on a comb. Corn Pop trailed kisses down Boe's chest, to his stomach, lower, lower, teasing, then, in one fluid motion, he took Boe deep into his mouth. Boe gasped at the warm, wet feeling, and his hips began to rock.

Somehow, Boe wound up on his knees, his head bowed and his rump thrust into the air.

Holding his penis firmly, he pressed against Boe, his head squeezing to get in and Boe's body instinctively squeezing to keep him out. He tilted his hips back, and pushed with slightly more force. He penetrated him, and Boe let out a long, hissing "Ahhhhhhhh!" Corn Pop gasped as Boe's rear walls clamped down on him. He slowly eased the rest of himself in, then pulled back and slid forward once more, Boe's body seeming to resign itself to its fate and unclenching.

"Go slow," Boe gasped. He dug his fingernails into the seat, his eyes squeezed closed. The sensation was strange, almost like he had to poop. Corn Pop's throbbing cock pulsed against his walls, and Boe felt so full that he imagined he might rip in half if Corn Pop went too fast.

Corn Pop pulled out, and came forward again, his crowned head scraping slowly against Boe. He found a steady rhythm, and he began to relax, each thrust sending pangs of pain and pleasure into his core. He reached down and jacked himself while slowly rocking his hips back and forth, liking the way Corn Pop grazed along his walls. He was going deeper now, right to the base, and Boe jerked faster, faster, furiously; his hand cramped but he didn't care. He had to cum, had to lose himself to the agony and ecstasy, had to finish with the black man deep in her ass, his balls lightly slapping him.

"I-I'm cummin'," Corn Pop grated.

"Cum in me, Daddy," Boe said.

Throwing his head back, Corn Pop cried out and released, long, hot ribbons of boiling cum flooding into Boe's rear. Warmth pooled in his stomach and spread out, and Boe could take no more: He blew his own load just as enthistisvally as he blew his whistle, his sperm splattering the upholestry.
When it was over, they clung to each other, naked, sweaty, and panting, Corn Pop playing big spoon and Boe little. Corn Pop kissed the back of his neck, and Boe giggled like a giddy girl. Corn Pop reached around and threaded his fingers through Boe's, and Boe snuggled closer to his man.

For a long time, they drifted warm and sleepy in the afterglow of their lovingmaking, hen Boe spoke. "That was nice," he said.

"Sure was," Corn Pop said, a grin in his voice. "You can blow my whistle any time."


In the year 2019, Boe Jiden stood on a packed stage, clowns to the left of him and jokers to the right, just like the old song. "That, ladies and gentlemen," he said into the mic, "is how I learned conflicted resolution."

A sea of shocked faces gaped up at him; it was so quiet in the debate hall you could hear a pin drop.

The moderator, seated behind a desk, nervously adjusted his glasses. "The question, Mr. Jiden," he said, "was how would you stem the tide of illegal immigration?"

"Was it?" Boe asked, confused. He must have gotten off track and started rambling again. "Well, when I was Oarack's VP I - and this reminds me of another good story, let me tell it real quick."

Sernie Banders and Wlizabeth Earren both rolled their eyes, and Oeto B'Rourke took the opportunity to practice his Spanish with Bory Cooker.

"Once upon a time," Jiden began, "on the mean streets of Wilmington, Delaware's east side, there lived a lifeguard named Boe Jiden…."