A short play on the stage of golf.
R. “Whoa is me Juliet, I sense an impending loss of handicap from these Veronese overloads who have, without our Montague guiding hand Timboni strategised to hobble the House of Montapie”
J. “Hold fast your hand o Romeo, stab not thou beating breast – my Capulet brethren wouldn’t strike thee down to 35 even in their darkest days”
R. “Hail you Capulet contrivers, supposed supporters of NZGA sageness, cut me not to the quick with your sharp penned reduction. Baste me neither in the bowels of trophy-less assessment of a plus five. Give me my countless dues of seven years in the winless wilderness.”
J. “Oh brothers and Capulet cousins, shame, not yourselves with this orgy of handicap hobbling, give my Romeo his dues, a thirty-six would see him swing his stick with the gay abandon he deserves. Fear thee my self-mutilation if he is forced to a thirty-five and the weak sorry drive that count would ensure.”
R. “and so I beseech, 36 would be a peach, just as 35 would be my demise.
Nude Minor