Far From Par

Diary entry: It seemed as though a mysterious hand reached down out of the sky and pinched Paulie’s head between the thumb and forefinger, brought him out of his place, and set him down like a Titlist golf ball, onto a tee of utter despair and fear, a swirling funnel cloud approached the par five tee, a number three wood in it’s hand, the cloud looked like the guy who used to live next door, yeah, it looked like Bud, the guy who worked at the brewery, the guy who swore he would cut us little bastards’ ears off if we ever stepped in his yard again, yes, Paulie had found himself on the tee, tee’d up, tee’d up where he never dreamed in his life he would ever find himself, but here I was, my head on a tilted tee, like a Titlist golf ball, my old neighbor Bud, the old guy who worked at the brewery who said if he ever caught me, he would “cut my fuckin’ ears off”, the guy who moved like a plains tornado, we couldn’t tell if he was rotating clockwise or counter clockwise, we just knew he was turning and we ran away from him at ninety degree angles, yeah, anyway, as Bud approached my tee’d up head to slam me into the next fairway, Bud looked pissed, like he had spilled his fifth martini in his lap as he asked the waitress what kind of perfume she was wearing and she answered that she had just cleaned up vomit in the back room… sometimes this goddamned world just doesn’t pay… well… fore…

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