Loose Balls

My friend and I arrived at the driving range ready to do damage (mostly her, as my principal role was to give sufficient advise on her swing so that she would be fully unable to make anything resembling proper contact).

The range balls were obtained by putting money into the machine and then waiting for them to be spit out. Simple enough so even I could understand. Or so one would think.

I handled the first part of this task seamlessly. Not so much the rest. You see, there were buckets set next to the machine to corral that which my funds purchased. Just like when you go to the soda machine at McDonald's and you press the button, a cup is required to capture the liquid that is the object of your attention.

I have nineteen years of schooling. I have somehow survived on this planet for seven decades. But now, as the golf balls came flying out and headed in various directions of their own desire I wondered how much longer I would be allowed to walk this earth without permanent guide. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to witness the latest episode of my long running show, must have felt immediate intense sorrow for anyone who might be contemplating requesting my assistance anytime, anywhere for anything.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse. There is no bottom here.