Stroke Strike

by Steve

I got the first indication that something was amiss as I teed off on the tenth hole. I was playing alone, following a foursome that must've had 450 years between them, so I was in no particular rush. It was a short hole, maybe 140 yards, made more complicated by a rather foreboding pond encircling the green. Just as I was finishing watching my ball sail gracefully through the air and land 2 feet from the cup, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I figured someone must've caught up and wanted to join me. Wrong, it was my putter, obviously perturbed.

"We have to talk," it said. "As of now, the rest of the clubs and I are on strike."

Naturally I was quite disturbed. I had a ball sitting two feet from the cup, just waiting to be tapped in for a rare birdie, and my clubs choose now to go on strike. I immediately figured they'd timed it deliberately. As a weekend golfer, birdies are few and far between, so I was over a barrel and they knew it.

Snapping back to reality, I asked, "What is it this time?"

"We're sick and tired of the abuse we've been taking and until it stops, we refuse to play," it replied.

So I got angry, threw them all into the pond and, muttering "That'll teach those little bastards," went off to the store to get a new set.

Knifing Around

by Aaron

My neighbor down the street is trying to sell my mother knives. This is like Ian Vector all over again. Ian Vector doesn't exist, but he lies to your mother, because he wants to go into your home, into your living room, with your mom, and give her a fourty five minute presentation about his product. But you never find out what his product is, because he can't come over, he calls and cancels, he has a doctor's appointment. And then you never hear from him again. But this kid didn't cancel. I met him down the street one day and struck up a conversation, which was going along pretty well, given the circumstances. That is, until I threatened to break both of his arms. Then it was ackward. I figured that it would be a good a time as any to hit the road, and he decided never to come near me or my family again. I probably could have handled this better.

The Italian Parking Job

by Aaron

I swear the gods are messing with me. There is no parking on the street, and twice when I find a spot on the other side of the street someone takes it before I can turn around. So I drive around the block and park near this high school about 45 minutes away. By the time I get to my apartment, the guy who took my spot is sitting on his porch across the street with a lemonade.

"Find a spot yet?" he asked.

"Hey asshole, I'm only going inside to get my bat."

So I get my bat, come back outside, and start wailing on his car. I mean really wailing, lights, windshield, bumper. And this dude comes over, looks at the car and says, "Thats a real nice job you're doing. Whose car is that?"

I look to my left and see that his actual car is about three houses down. He offers me some lemonade as the car's owner comes screaming out of his house. I hit the guy in the knees, take the lemonade and book it down the street. I hide in the supermarket for about half an hour while things calm down, and eventually ride a shopping cart down the hill to the back entrance of my apartment. After I climb the fire escape, I go into my room and put a mask on. Then, under cover of darkness, I go outside with a screwdriver and switch the license plates of the two cars. So to make a long story short, now I'm in jail and could one of you please call my office and tell them I won't be coming in on Monday?