The pic shown is of Ethan Hunter. I included it (with his permission) because he had a
good Men’s Night. Information regarding his experience is found further on in
this blog entry.
When I got home on Wednesday evening, I texted a quick summary of the evening to someone who was away. The person responded with a suggestion that I add some descriptive words, with more adverbs and adjectives, to really paint a picture. So I took my short overview and dropped it into ChatGPT, an online AI tool. What follows is what it produced.
In a single, magnificent round of a game drenched in unbridled anticipation,
only one splendidly adorned skin journeyed forth, with the illustrious Landon
Tanner, in a most fortuitous pairing with the unfeeling dummy on the formidable
fourth, triumphing in the grand sum of $92.06.
In a grand contest on the majestic fifth, it was none other than the venerable Cubby Bartram who emerged closest, while the sagacious Ethan Hunter made his presence known on the ninth. In a stroke of unparalleled genius, Ethan deftly executed a deuce, thus securing the solitary claim on the grandiose $43.13 pot.
In the annals of our shared history, I am compelled to recall a fateful day that
myself and another braved the unforgiving terrain of Shilo, where the cold was
of such an intensity that it etched itself into our very bones. On that day,
the heavens unleashed a relentless sleet, reducing visibility to mere inches,
and the final two holes were played in a surreal landscape of blinding white,
rendering our vision obsolete, and causing my words to falter into a slurry of
speech.
This week, by contrast, began with an almost preternatural calmness
until the infamous Men's Night commenced. It was at this juncture that the wind
began to howl with a ferocity that defied the elements, and the temperature
plummeted to a biting chill. I have previously engaged in rounds with snow
stubbornly clinging to the trees and on one memorable evening when the
thermometer read 7 Celsius, though the biting wind made it feel a bone-chilling
3. In another particularly audacious endeavor at Pinawa, early one April, I
found myself striking a pond and, in a feat of remarkable daring, ventured onto
the icy surface to take my next shot.
This past Wednesday, however, ascends into the lofty echelon of the top five
coldest experiences of my golfing existence, a frigid testament to the
relentless caprices of nature.
Well, that was interesting. A little too fancy for my taste but it was
worth trying once.
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