F-CAW-F

Edgar Allan would've loved this one. Burnt-orange honeycomb sky, leafless branches clawing the frame, and dead center — a black raven perched on a bleached human skull, wing cocked, middle talon extended, telling you personally where to go. Silver gravestone-letters hammered across the top. Nevermore, but make it cornhole. The only word this bird knows starts with F, and it sure as hell isn't "sorry." Quoth the raven: caw.

Read the name out loud. Slowly. F — CAW — F. That's the math the bird already did for you. The slick top side runs when the lane opens up — a clean slider that finds the hole as the crow flies. Flip to the cream canvas underbelly and it stops cold, hangs a blocker on the lip, parks a roll exactly where you dropped it. One bag. Two answers. Both rude.

Hand your opponent a set. Watch him read it. Tell him to F-CAW-F off the board.