Barnaby Buttercup, a man whose golfing prowess was inversely proportional to his enthusiasm, stepped up to the tee. He’d been promising his golfing buddy, old Fitzwilliam, a hole-in-one all week. Fitzwilliam, a wizened fellow with a permanent squint and a penchant for loudly chewing Werther’s Originals, watched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and suppressed laughter.
“Remember, Barnaby,” Fitzwilliam wheezed, his jaw working like a miniature cement mixer, “Fore! And try not to accidentally launch a squirrel into orbit this time.”
Barnaby puffed out his chest, gripping his club like a drowning man clutching a life raft. “Don’t worry, Fitzwilliam, this time it’s different! I’ve been practicing my… uh… unique swing.”
He proceeded to demonstrate his “unique swing,” which involved a series of frantic flails, a yelp, and a disconcerting popping sound from his knees. The resulting shot was… less than impressive. The ball, instead of soaring gracefully towards the hole, took a sharp right turn, bounced off a startled heron, ricocheted off a passing hot air balloon, and finally landed with a gentle plop… directly into Fitzwilliam’s open bag of Werther’s Originals.
Fitzwilliam stared, his mouth agape, a single, caramel-coated Werther’s clinging precariously to his cheek. He pulled the golf ball, now completely encased in sticky caramel, from the bag.
“Bad news, worse swing!” Fitzwilliam declared, his voice surprisingly calm, “Looks like I’ll have to buy a new bag of Werther’s… and maybe some new dentures.” He then added, with a surprisingly mischievous glint in his eye, “At least they’re perfectly sweetened now.”
