Everyone has heard the adage, "You can't make your house into a miniature golf course". It's been hammered into our heads since day one and, in case you didn’t get enough indoctrination in your formative years, the Fabers next door are offering free refresher courses in narrow-mindedness. But I ask you, why not? Save the more difficult midnight walk from the bed across the moat to the bathroom, the logistics of keeping a giant macramé dinosaur in the kitchen, and a tenfold increase in annual household expenditures on mini pencils, why not?
I mean, think about it. Who doesn't enjoy mini golf? The look, the ambiance of the Lilliputian links conjures up warm memories of a fatherless yet mildly enjoyable youth. It's a national pastime. Anyone who doesn't enjoy miniature golf is downright un-American. I'm not leading any witch hunts, but rumor has it the Fabers are from Minnesota – if my memory serves me correctly that's awfully near the Canadian border.
Let's be honest here. Miniature golf is by far the best miniature sport we've got, table tennis, pocket bowling, and midget tossing be damned. It would be stupid not to radically overhaul your house. If you're thinking of doing the same, remember this: contractors just get in the way, with their regulation this and structural integrity that. My pirate ship is perfectly safe, I don't care what math says.
I truly believe that this could be the start of something big, municipality-wide big. The skeptics (especially those damn Fabers, with their boring, golf-less house) would have you believe otherwise. They'd have you believe that there's something odd, even unsafe, about having a putt-putt abode. "Get that batting cage off our yard", they say. "Ohh, I'm scared for the kids and pets", they say. Pshaw. I for one find the walk in my front door more exciting when there's the chance of being forcibly denied entrance by the spinning blade of a giant windmill. Spices things up a bit.
You see, in a lot of ways, life is just like miniature golf. It can be a little dangerous, especially if you have a few in you. You never set out to play a round, it just sort of happens. You get a little more competitive than you'd intended, wind up yelling at some close friends and nearby children, and in the end the ball (i.e. your life) winds up going down the drain. Unless you win a free game. I guess that's the Mormons going to heaven or something, I didn't really flesh out the metaphor yet.
The point is, this is more than a matter of good sense. It's about America. It's about freedom. It's about keeping my failing threadbare green carpet company in business. But most of all, it's about a zest for life. I think you know what I mean, Officer, so I'd appreciate the following things, in no particular order: my putter back, the Fabers incarcerated, and an apology.
by CS Van Orden