An Emasculatory Development For Yours Truly

Having already been soundly throttled by the fair Briana at both billiards and tennis (in consecutive days no less), I tactfully suggested a trip to my latest backyard find, the Par 3 wonderland that is the Montclair Golf Course.

Average hole length? I'm haven't the foggiest clue. However, it's farcically short. I'm fairly certain that you could spit a three over par.

Alas, since Briana hadn't held a golf club since 7th grade*, we opted for the adjacent driving range, which was essentially a double decker sports bar with artificial turf mats strewn sporadically about. The yardage markers (decrepit, hand-painted oil drums) were hilariously inaccurate and the target area was military-grade scorched earth.

Yet despite these handicaps, and one nuclear strength bloody mary, Briana put on a display of mental and athletic fortitude worthy of my praise and, ultimately, envy.


Her inner dialogue: "Steady head. Knees stay bendy. Easy now... keep the eyes and head down. Slowwww back swing... don't turn those hips yet. Accelerate through the ball. Oh fuck yes that was sweet. Strike a pose. Now strut. Shit yeah... where's that bloody mary?"

I've unwittingly stumbled upon yet another pastime at which my beloved Briana Jo will keep me perpetually humble.

Also, pissed.

*7th grade gym requirement. Memorable golf tip? When swinging, pretend you're in a pickle barrel.

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