We never should have stopped, we were so drunk. But drinking and putting looked like more fun than drinking and driving so in we went, and we would not be deterred even after you fell from the bridge into the stream after the first hole, and attacked the moving arms of the windmill at hole 4, and started driving balls at the elf at hole 5, who turned out to be a real person, the child of the manager in fact, who came storming across hole 8 (past the Eiffel Tower, made out of fish bones!) with a sawed-off shotgun, which he discharged into the air. And he simply wasn't buying it, that the kid looked amazingly like papier mache, even though I would have to agree with you there that he did, look fake that is, the little fucker.
Anyway, that's what happened on our way to Alaska to gut fish. We barely escaped with our life. And the best part was 200 miles later you were still sitting in the passenger seat clutching your scoresheet in one hand and shouting, "Take me back. I'll stab him with this little pencil!"