I golfed with my Dad today. Every one of my golfing experiences, since one cold, Autumn day back in early days of 2000 (my junior year of high school), has been an abysmal outing filled with cursing, club slamming, and mega-bogeys, upwards of 7,8 and 9 strokes per hole. Well, not every hole, but most. "It takes me 27 holes to warm up," I've said
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Followed by a few squeaks: "O! B!" whilst I waved a flag. That was when my Dad shot, though. Not me. Everytime I sunk a putt I went "Whoo-hoo-hoo!", did a spin, made a peace sign like a fag, and then a star did a neat swoop around me. And Kurt was there. Really. He was losing. Bad.
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