“God,” he said, “I just can’t get my swing right today.”
“Ah, don’t worry, Jake. A couple more holes and it’ll come together for ya.” You’re such a whiny little asshole. Your swing ain’t ever been right. Whatever.
“Did ya see that bird move my ball, back on nine? Damn bird pecked at my ball. If he hadn’t pecked at my ball, I had a good shot at birdie there. Did ya see that?”
“Yeah, Jake, I saw it.” Whiny little asshole. The bird lands near your ball, sitting in the second cut near the bunker, and yeah, your ass was on its way to a birdie. Sure it was. Idiot. And wear different pants next time, idiot. Who pulls hot pink plaid golf pants out of the back of their closet from the fuckin’ 80’s?? Oh yeah, that’s right. You do.
“I think that’s where it started goin’ bad for me today. With that damn bird. If I could get my hands on that bird, I’d wring its neck, ya know, Riley?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Damn bird.” Christ, when will it end with the whiny shit? Maybe if he did a little more chokin’ his own chicken instead a whinin’ about that gull peckin’ his ball, his swing would relax. Heh. Yeah. “It’s all gonna come together for ya on the next hole. Just relax, Jake. Let The Force Be With You.” Moron.
“Ha! Yeah. Like that movie, right? Okay. Yeah. I’ll let The Force be with me!”
Stop swinging your club like a light saber in those damn pink plaid pants. Jesus help me. If this guy wasn’t my boss…
“Watch this! Watch this! I’m loose now, baby. I’m loose and I’m ready to go.”
Suddenly, from a cloudless blue sky, a lightning bolt shot straight through Jake’s club and fried him whole, pink pants and all.
“Holy shit!” I’ll never again doubt the power of prayer. Riley teed off.