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I’m a big gavel guy. I would’ve run for president of my fraternity strictly for gavel utilization purposes and the power it entailed had the job title not also included all the other responsibilities of being president. But alas, it did, so I got the power I sought via the recording secretary position and my gavel utilization via frequent trips to the arcade to play whack-a-mole. I was content…
But never happy. I don’t just want to bang a gavel, I need to. I sometimes have dreams where I’m the fifth teenage mutant ninja turtle and my weapon is a gavel. This of course causes me some difficulties, as every time I have the dream, I mistake Master Splinter for a mole — with force of habit causing me to try and whack him. That always pisses Michelangelo off, and it leads to this whole big thing.
That’s why I wish I was Patrick Reed yesterday. All the gavel banging, none of the drama. Well, almost no drama.
Look at that gavel head fly. I can’t blame the man for putting a little too much oomph on it, though. If I was in Patty’s shoes, I’d have done the same damn thing. The excitement of banging a gavel will do crazy things to a man, like give him superhuman strength. I don’t know that from experience, obviously; I can only assume. But hopefully, soon enough, I can replace those moles with a crisp, oak sound block, and finally be happy..
h/t Golf Digest