It was a lazy Friday night, the kind where it's hot as hell and you are lolling around on the floor because the act of sitting up could very possibly stop your heart.
Jessica Burgess
Clearly Unedited
"Hey," said this guy who is obviously some sort of robot – probably an evil one. "I'm bored. Let's go do something. Want to take a walk?"
"No," I said, and thought about making a rude gesture, but ultimately decided against the energy expenditure.
"Well, how about hitting some golf balls?" he said.
I perked up. "Really? We could do that."
See, the thing is, and I don't want to sound immodest, but I'm a real, honest-to-gosh golfer.
Not in the sense that I technically play golf, per se. But I do own a set of clubs, which were purchased at a used sporting goods shop in 1991. They are almost completely free of rust.
Also, I have golf balls. Probably as many as a dozen. And some tees, and a towel. (Not sure what it's for, but it was marketed specifically as a golfing towel. So it counts.)
And – this one is the pièce de résistance –a glove. Nothing says "golfer" like a single glove. It also says "Michael Jackson." But probably less and less as time goes by.
The reason I have all this stuff is that, as a teenager, I used to go golfing with my grandmother. This mainly consisted of riding around on a cart, taking ineffectual swings at the ball, and trying to suppress my natural inclination toward profanity (which my grandma did not bother to do, by the way).
But anyway, I have at least some golf experience; my boyfriend has none. "Sure," I said. "Let's go hit balls. I'll even give you a few pointers." I tried not to act too smug. My athletic superiority would surely humiliate him!
When we got to the driving range, I put on my glove, surreptitiously looking around to see if anyone was impressed.
My boyfriend pulled a driver out of my golf bag. I smirked. "That one's kind of hard to use, Hon," I said, and handed him a tee. "But feel free to give it a try."
Meanwhile, I yanked out a seven iron and expertly took aim. First the backswing, then – OUCH DAMN GROUND HARD HURTS.
While I rubbed my arm, I heard a perfect thwack. I looked up, and my boyfriend's ball was sailing hundreds of yards away. "Um, nice shot," I called.
"Thanks!" he said, putting another ball on the unbroken tee. Thwack. Perfect. Thwack. Perfect.
I took a few more shots, and improved enough that I hit only air instead of the ground. Then I took off my glove and just watched my boyfriend bitterly.
I knew he was a robot.
Jessica is willing to turn her boyfriend in to government authorities. Contact her at jburgess@quickdfw.com.
