It is greatly amusing, in a perverse sort of way, to sit on the deck overlooking the 7th tee box at 8 in the morning and watch beer-bellied, middle-aged, white guys in shorts and mismatched shirts wearing two-colored shoes attempt to bend over and place their golf ball on a tee, then straighten up, look down the fairway, ask "how far is it?" like they had a chance of driving it 374 yards, hitch up their belt, take a half a swing and then step up and plunge at the over-priced white sphere. This is followed by a certain glazing over of the eyes and reddening of the face from exertion and then a combination of the following phrases :"Ah shit! Oh for chrisakes! Agggggh! Hit something! Turn, turn! Get going!" or the always famous, "Damn club!" followed by, "I'll look for that up there."
It would be a lot funnier if I didn't hear the same words an hour later from my own cart!