Re: Cemetaries and Disc Golf
It was a moribund day; almost morose. As I was driving down the road, I saw this drop-dead gorgeous piece of property. I thought it would make a heavenly disc golf course.
I found the owner (Mr. Potter), who had just bought the farm. He was taking a dirt nap beneath a large oak tree, and I didnít want to disturb his dreamless sleep. I had a grim feeling that he had recently gone into the fertilizer business.
So, I paid the piper and tipped Charon, but still had to sneak past his dog Cereberus before I could get through the pearly gates.
On the first, softly-mounded tee-box, I threw a prayer of a shot with my Arc Angle, and it died just beneath the cairn. I should have thrown my Reaper.
On the next box, I threw a spike hyzer that knifed into the ground like a guillotine, but I was able to exhume the disc without having to commit hara-kiri.
There was something different about this Elysian Field, and my game never got heated up, itís as though my disc were covered in adipocere and my arm was developing algor mortis. It was a difficult course; it bequeathed me nothing.
I stumbled over an old friend who was too busy pushing up daisies to join my card. So I continued to walk through the valley of shadows alone (I knew I was alone, because there was only one set of footprints in the sand).
I didnít need my mini disc too often, as nearly every throw landed near a marker.
On the final hole, my shot skipped off a bucket (I kicked it out of the way), and landed six feet under the shuleÖI think it was a bed of death camas and hemlock.
When I was done, I cashed in my chips, visited Davey Joneís locker, and vowed to revisit Potters Field. But for now I was content to shuffle off this mortal coil.