Consistant golf shots.



Bob stood over his tee on the 450-yard 18th hole for what seemed like an eternity.

He shifted on his feet, looked up, looked down, shifted again, but didn't start his swing.

Finally his exasperated partner asked, "What is taking so long?"

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

"Good grief!" his companion explained. "You don't have a snow ball's chance in hell of hitting her from here."


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