Why I Hate Mini Golf

Let me make it absolutely clear: I despise mini golf with a passion. It’s essentially the fine art of smacking a little ball around a terribly designed putting green adorned with painfully cheesy 1970s decor. Allow me to elucidate precisely why my disdain for mini golf knows no bounds.

Number one:

Mini golf is a rip-off, plain and simple. At times, for a group of eight, you’re shelling out close to a Benjamin. I can rattle off two dozen superior activities you could indulge in for that kind of cash.

Number two:

Initially, mini golf holds some appeal for the first couple of holes, but it swiftly devolves into a relentless repetition of the same theme. What was mildly amusing at the outset becomes a never-ending cycle of monotony. Every time I partake, I find myself questioning if I’m trapped in some hellish Groundhog Day, forever reliving the same activity.

Number three:

The scoring in mini golf is a farce. Kids can’t seem to sink the ball without resorting to sneaky tactics, rendering the supposed scoring system utterly meaningless.

Number four:

No one on Earth relishes the task of keeping score on those infuriatingly tiny scorecards. Perhaps it’s the minuscule pencils that leave illegible scribbles, but tallying up mini golf scores invariably leads to headaches and frustration.

Number five:

The course decorations hold no allure for anyone, and, if anything, they’re downright off-putting. To most folks, they range from mildly unsettling to a source of pure terror, and only the youngest of children exhibit genuine interest in them.

Number six:

Standing space on a mini golf course is rarer than hen’s teeth. You’re perpetually forced to occupy the periphery of the course, forever leaping out of the current player’s path. It’s an activity where you can’t shift around and have a good time; instead, you’re awkwardly searching for the least inconvenient spot to stand.

Number seven:

Boredom strikes with such intensity that cheating becomes an irresistible temptation. The deeper you wade into the sea of tedium, the stronger the urge to bend the rules just to reach the game’s merciful conclusion.

Number eight:

Tragically, the more mini golf you play, the more the kids clamor for it. It spirals into an unending cycle of relentless mini golf, an inescapable vortex where the youngsters are ceaselessly driven to engage in this nightmarish excuse for a sport.

Number nine:

Bending down to retrieve the ball from the hole is tolerable the first time, but doing it at every hole is an entirely different story. My back is on the brink of rebellion, and my mood sours accordingly.

Number ten:

Ironically, scoring a hole-in-one on the final hole typically earns you a free game. However, in reality, this is a curse that refuses to release its grip. In this scenario, achieving success only leads to further confinement in the never-ending purgatory of endless mini golf.

Now, if you somehow manage to consistently ace that last hole, you’re trapped in a perpetual loop of mini golf, playing until you’re nothing more than a starved and broken soul. It’s a dismal existence, and I’m convinced it’s a form of punishment.