Bob stood over his tee sot for what seemed an eternity.

He waggled, looked up, looked down, waggled again, but didn’t start his backswing. Finally his exasperated partner asked, “what the hell is taking so long?”

“My wife is up there watching me from the clubhouse,” Bob explained. “I want to make a perfect shot.”

“Good lord!” his companion exlaimed. “You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of hitting her from here.”

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