Golfing with Birdies Too

Ah, golfing, a beautiful day,

blue skies, green grass, no worries—

just me, my clubs,

and the endless possibilities of getting that little white ball

somewhere near the hole.

First swing, I’m feeling confident.

Grip is good, stance is perfect,

I can practically hear the applause of the crowd—

oh wait, no, that’s just a seagull screeching.

It’s fine, I’m focused.

And then—plop.

What was that?

Please don’t tell me… yep,

bird poo, a perfectly aimed splatter,

right on my lucky golf shirt.

Is there a sniper bird somewhere?

I mean, what are the odds?

It’s like they’re waiting for the moment of concentration.

Okay, shake it off, shake it off.

Just a little bird mess, no big deal,

I can recover.

Focus on the ball, not the fact

that I’m now officially a target.

Step up to the tee again—

a deep breath,

and whoosh, another swing,

and splat!—right on the brim of my hat!

Are you kidding me?

I’m out here dodging bird bombs like I’m in a low-budget action movie!

Is there some secret bird council?

"Hey guys, he’s golfing again. Let’s ruin his day."

They’re not even subtle about it.

I look up and there’s a whole flock circling,

like some kind of winged mafia.

They know what they’re doing.

I try to move,

but now it’s like a game of chess.

I step left, the bird swoops right.

I take cover under a tree—bad idea.

That’s where they launch their attacks.

Finally, I line up for another swing,

just as a pigeon lands nearby,

giving me that smug, beady-eyed stare.

“Go ahead,” it seems to say,

“Just try to focus. I dare you.”

I swing—miss.

Swing again—splatter! Direct hit.

This is not a golf course;

this is a war zone!

I’m battling gravity and seagull digestive systems.

Maybe it’s a sign.

Maybe I wasn’t meant for golf.

Or maybe I just need an umbrella…

and a hazmat suit.