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.