Ho. How can you call it a game when it requires hours daily in practice and playing every day in heat or sleet? And after all of that, you cannot get the stupid ball into the stupid hole (which gets smaller as the ball gets closer) without doubling the so-called “par” score at the very least.
Oh, and do not, please, try to tell me to take a lesson or two! That just makes matters worse, as I attempt to remember what the coach told me to do (which, by the way, considering my age is difficult enough to do) and my arms go akimbo and my legs can’t figure out the appropriate direction, and the stupid ball goes into the water. And my handicap soars.
Ho, ho. A game. Sure.
Got to go, the fairways beckon.