You have before heard me talk about whacking bread, but have yet to see a demonstration of it. Well fear no more, my readers, today I will tell you all about how I have utilized the whacking powers of said bread.
You may recall how the organizers asked me to invent a sport for the final day of the Triathlon, for consideration to add it permanently. Out of three, it would then be number eighteen. I said to them, get me sardines, whacking bread, froyo, and teaspoons. Make the whacking bread as long as possible. So I arrived after work, and there it was, all aligned on the tables. Now I had expected a small show, but apparently all the Russians came. And by that I mean it was so packed that I bet it was the whole town. Remember, everybody's Russian. I wondered if it was last day excitement, but no the end of festival celebrations are tomorrow. Apparently word had gotten out that I was inventing an eighteenth sport. Gulp. Also sound-for-breath-drawn-inbetween-clenched-teeth. They said no pressure, but my barometer read 13 psi. But I got myself readied up, and decided that I was going to enjoy it come anything. Besides, it was the last time I was refereeing. So I spoke to the organizers. They had competitors lined up, eager to get at the last of the gold medallions. They were looking at the sardines, bread, and froyo, and if I could read their facial expressions, I would translate as "Livi does not know how to cook." Which is true, but besides the point. I said we are fencing. They said what. I said Livi fencing. They said ah.
Now, Livi Fencing goes as following. There are two teams of two players, one on each team to fence, and one to eat a large froyo with a teaspoon. The time begins at the word "go" and finishes whenever one of the fencer's whacking-bread breaks, or the sardine balanced on top of his head is dislodged. In which case, he loses, and the other team wins. The froyo-eaters have a similar challenge, in that they act as timers. If one of them finishes their froyo, the other team immediately loses. There is no physical contact allowed other than via whacking bread at penalty of being disqualificated. There are no boundaries, and no set ring to fence in, however all spectators are prohibited from helping or hindering any of the players if they choose to run randomly about.
Apparently they all thought it was entertaining before the sport even began. To be honest, so did I (why don't they make actual interesting sports like this?). The organizers said give them a pep talk before they start. So I did. I said well we are gathered here today in the memory of certain celebrities who had to defend themselves from poparazzi, and had nothing else to do it with but bread. We place our hands on our hearts and remember them. Now! look your opponent in the eye. Are you more sporting than him? Are you more Russian than him (they didn't seem to get this one)? Look, I have here the final gold medallions for the Triathlon! Wield your bread, or froyo, and battle! The only thing that stands between you and victory... is defeat!
So the first round began between a man of Russian descent and a man of Russian descent. On the froyo-eating sidelines, a Russian battled a man from what was formerly known as the USSR. I said GO! and the froyo-eaters cracked off the lid on their froyo, and started hammering at the frozen thing like they had just found gold. Meanwhile the Russians parried around each other (is parrying the right word?) before cracking a few whacks with their batons, but they both kept their heads straight and level, and so no misdeed fell to the sardines. One of them had a two-hand approach to his whacking bread, like a double sword or something, but the other seemed more nimble and spry (I don't know what spry means). They juked, and they boxed, and they juke-boxed, until one of the froyo-eaters said aha! and slammed down his froyo on the table. At that moment he realized he could break off what was surely a half kilogram piece, lift it with his tiny little spoon, and munch on it. Then the other froyo-eater got the same idea, and started shovelling ice. Meanwhile the two-handed Russian leveled a great whack at the other, and hit him on the side of the legs. The nimble Russian almost fell to the side, but then regained his balance, and saw that the other Russian's bread was bent. So he leveled a shot at it, and the whacking bread cracked. Then the crowd roared, and the two Russians sat down beside each other and started eating bread with sardines.
On the scale of one to ten, the organizers gave Livi Fencing an eleven. Which even I am surprised at. Apparently the Triathlon now has eighteen games. I am a proud citizen of Sparrow Falls.