I know exactly how I'd play this hole. I'd step up to the tee with my trusty Nebula, ready to smash it and let it fly its beautifully worked in dead nuts straight path straight to the hole. I would then get the best feeling hit all day, getting lots of pepper on it with form picturesque enough to land the Innova calendar cover. I then feel my heart plummet into the bottom of my stomach as I watch my Nebula kiss the right side of the very first tree with just a micrometer of contact which naturally sends it screaming into the thick rough like a scalded dog. Begrudgingly I go fight my way into the schule, swallowing copious amounts of spiderwebs and dropping F-bombs as I go. As usual, my disc is buried amongst briers and a drag pile carelessly left too close to the fairway so I have to do a Twister maneuver to take a legal stance. But the God lord answers my prayers and gives me a sliver of a window to hit and I ready my Champ Banshee in all its flat, PFN glory for the magisterial FH roller I am destined to unleash out of the tree jail like when Han Solo and the gang made their narrow escape in the Millennium Falcon from that giant planet worm thing. I let loose my Banshee like the finest of Robin Hood's arrows and my aim is inch perfect. Alas, tragedy seeketh to make us bedfellows yet again as my Banshee alights upon an unforeseen Coors Light can from the early seventies whose burial had been disturbed by the ravages of wind and rain. With heavy heart I trudge into the thick rough on the left side of the fairway, still scant feet away from the tee. Defeated, I yield to the Fates toying with my cursed life and make the safe pitch out. Eager to stave away any further drama I call upon my trustiest disc yet, my lovingly worn DX Polecat for a simple run at the basket and resultant easy putt. What ho! It appears that my Polecat is bedeviled as well and it cheekily summons stability from a bygone era and uncharacteristically fades away from my target, that impish disc! My beloved Polecat leaves me a putt naturally outside of my comfort zone and legions of dread creep into my thoughts as an army of ants besiege exposed sugar. At the end of my proverbial rope I rustle my Plutonium from the bag, go through the motions and release a putt absent of any hope or confidence. It heads destined for the tray and I ready myself for the assured carom and roll of death but be still mine heart! The Plutonium knoweth not my inclinations for self-flagellation and seemingly by its own volition, defies gravity and crawls over the nubs like a soldier stubbornly carrying out its mission. A bogey elates me like no other and I delight in a hole that finally reached its terminus, aspirant for good fortune in the holes ahead!
