There is an incredibly chaotic emotion that comes over people when they play the ancient sport of miniature golf, yet something in the very core of their being erupts when they miss a ten inch put or hit a bombshot from the sidewalk off the rocks past the carpet sand bunker.
Not sure why, but people keep coming back, and they fucking love it. Whether it’s that suspiciously blue water or the aroma of the plastic handle that ten fatally sick children also grabbed that day, people love miniature golf. However, miniature golf is not miniature golf until someone screams fuck and you have to apologize to the family of ten behind you that has three kids currently sticking their hands in the fountain.
For me, it’s the blood boiling moment when you take that risky shot around the poorly colored animal and sink a two putt for third place. Nothing Better. So go out and get a small pencil without an eraser from the jailbait girl behind the counter and pencil in your triple bogey on a par three because the sun was in your eyes and you don’t play well with country music playing.