Ahhh, mini-golf. The staple sport of fat people and the beach. It’s something that the whole family can enjoy, or at least rip each other’s heads off about. When I was younger, my family was so competitive that we’d have two people keeping score so that we could compare scores. We don’t want any cheaters. We also played at a course where we could use a coupon that gave us $2 off and a free soda. I emphasize this soda, because it became the loser’s gift. Let me show you what I mean.


The Pegboard

Once you’ve played through 18 holes of windmills, sand traps, annoying kids ahead of you that take 5 minutes a hole, and horrible mental anguish from those hole-in-one’s that were robbed from your sweet grasp, there is this wonderful payoff awaiting you. As you can see, it is very simple. Hit ball up ramp, watch ball fall aimlessly, screw your desires to spin the wheel and just hope for a free soda. The ball falls down the pegboard, and there are a few holes in it. Some of the options include, free soda, bankrupt, and lucky wheel. There’s not a man on this earth who wouldn’t want to spin the lucky wheel. And it’s obvious why. Just look at the prizes. I mean come on… you don’t just win a hot pretzel, you win a HOT PRETZEL! Or maybe you’d hope to win a POP CORN! The exclamation point makes it all the much more tasty. I always thought popcorn was one word, though. It’s not impossible. I was playing with my sister, her friend, and my Mom, and I was commanded to get win the elusive “5 free games.” So I stepped up, whacked it on up there, and bada-bing bada-boom; five free games are mine. The next two times I played here I won nothing… so I’ll assume it’s just making up for its mistake.

But what is winning the prize worth if you don’t win the game. I did a little bit of both. In fact, in all five games we played here, I won them all. I rule like that. Last year in Delaware, Kevin and I played 13 games of golf. Six wins for him, six for me, and a 15-hole golf that didn’t actually count because there was no mention that it was a flawed course. Once we had finished we were like, “what the fuck just happened here?!? Did they just rip us off?! How the hell do they forget to put three holes in?!?” But I can see why you wouldn’t care about my anger. So onto the bastard hole.


This is Hartland Mini-Golf, as noted by the sign.


It’s where people go to live out their dreams and dance the night away. Or just dress up in matching outfits to play a quick round of putt-putt.


Or you can just see this girl’s butt-butt.

It’s a fun course. Easy enough to keep the sane sane and the insane… outsane. Though there is one whole that will drive any human being to suicide. Number 11. God I hate number 11. I’m not sure if you will be able to feel my pain, but just try to imagine it’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re significant other gets you a box of chocolates… with a punch in the face, and they throw you out the window into the snowy ground and rub your face in the snow until you bleed, then piss on you. Or maybe it’s more like not being able to get the ball in the hole. In any case, take a look:


Check out the three ridges which make it impossible to get the ball in the hole. Most everyone gets a five (the maximum strokes you can have) on this one. We don’t just suck either. We’ve been playing here for years and can’t seem to get it.


Look at poor Kevin who can’t get it up. We need to get Bob Dole up in here.

Kevin got his revenge though:


What do we have here?


Hmm…


Ah ha!! I have a plan.


Anyone looking?


Kiss my ass suckers!!

Thank you Hartland for all your years of service. Maybe next year, if I decide to live up here in Jersey for the summer, you may find me working there. But it’s only to find out how to beat number 11… I promise.