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Ayup.

rifle_range.jpg

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Greetings:

I'm still serving my deportation to the San Francisco Bay area, living several soviets south of what the locals refer to, for some arcane reason as "The City".  Across the street there's part of a golf course, which for some incomprehensible reason has knotted up a whole bunch of enviro-panties which, as it invariably does, put the little darlings on another truth-challenged warpath.

Now our little burg is wedged between a coastal ridgeline and the deep blue Pacific. I don't think that there's a window in town that one can look out of and not see copious amount of greenage which is not always the case in the "Golden"  (née brown") State. We have critters a plenty in the air, on the land, and in the sea, sometimes in two or more of the three and especially on the Eve of Garbage Collection. Yet, somehow, we have grievously failed the future seven generations of enviros yet to be born.

Geography-wise, a large part of the golf course is separated from the Pacific by a bit of beach and a levee of dubious parentage. The combination of these two man-made constructions has apparently so altered the balance of our planet that there is now a scientific consensus of enviros that we will all be plummeting into the sun in another 213.7 billion years unless that levee and its protectee are summarily demolished and returned to someone's idea of its "natural" state thus rewarding us and their progeny, (and the gulls, and crows, and hawks) with another frog or snake or two.

Now let's not kid ourselves. We have been carefully conditioned to think of golfers as stylishly dressed older, moneyed (1%-ers???) folks who have been banished from home and hearth for any number of hours to let someone else get a break from listening to their prior exploits  and future failures. The reality, however, is that this is a seriously addicted population that demonstrates a scientifically consenualized pathology that has be allowed to wreak havoc over the land primarily because of the crafty landscaping, in an out of sight, out of mind kind of way, of its leadership. So, what do the enviros decide to do. What else, they try to mess with the landscaping.

Now this golf course is actually owned by the City and County and Soviet of the aforementioned San Francisco. Hmmm.  So, the enviros carefully take their well-knotted undergarments north to enlist what they, no doubt, presumed to be easily manipulable fellow-traveling politicos and pleaded their case. Well, getting between an addict and his/her/its dope was never a course of action that was recommended back in the Bronx of my youth. But then I can't really recall and enviros in the Bronx of my youth so there is probably some kind of educational gap operating here. Apparently, though, the politicos had a bit of an inkling in this regard, and when the so addicted started showing up, in all their resplendent couture at the show-trial hearings, well things took a bit of a turn that the enviros probably didn't foresee due to the discomfort in their biologically lower regions.

So, in their inevitable Solomonic way, the nomenklatura thought twice, perhaps thrice, and decided that a money making enterprise was not the wisest of destructions, and annoying a bunch of so sportily dressed individuals was not a "good", and that certainly and especially in San Francisco, there's a third way to do anything, even the most basic of biological functions, and so they carefully split this impending disaster of a political baby in two.  

To appease the current and multi-future generations of enviros, they agreed to put up a fence to limit the non-golfing pedestrians from the bit of "wetlands" that was to be scientifically extended to encompass most of the golf course lest they, the more pedestrian of those pedestrians trample that extra frog or snake or two before the gulls, etc. got 'em.  The golfing addicts, obviously, got those enviro addicts off their backs and fairways for some historically inconsequential period of time. Our little burg got an cute little enviro acceptable fence that wouldn't keep a Bronx boy out of anything, and, me, I got that deep sense of peace of mind knowing that, as my Oyrish granmama used to say about her proverbial clock, the enviros had finally done me a "good".

The addicts had been caged.




 
While the pic is without a doubt true, I would think a redleg such as yerself would love the practice range possibilities of a golf course for NLOS practice.  I mean, there would be no debating a "hole in one"....
Just, yanno, thinking out loud.
0>;~}
 
 I wudda thot a Red Leg would bewail the misuse of a good impact area. Either that or multiple ranges of some sort would be a much better use than pasture pool.
 
 What 11B40 said!  Lived in 'Frisco, done that, and recycled the T-Shirt.  My remaining question is what happens when one of the golfing addicts shanks a ball into the brain housing group of one of the 'dear little creatures' (aka dump diving seagulls)?
 
The nww improved commenting evaporated my last attempt. I'll try again.

Great minds really do think alike. Right here on this very blog, years ago, I pointed out that the allowable kinetic energy on a well-driven golf ball, according to the USGA, amounted to the energy put on the bullet by a S&W .32 Short cartridge. I suggested the use of golf ball launchers for riot control.

Nowadays, it seems that the hottest fad among the blackpowder artillery community is to build itsy-bitsy little Coehorn mortars of golf ball bore (1.72"), weighing about 5 pounds and can be held in one hand, which will throw a ball 200-300 yards.  I would love to play golf using one of those for a driver.

I still haven't figured out how to use explosives for putting. Maybe a cherry bomb at an appropriate distance behind the ball? (We'll put a piece of steel under it to avoid blowing divot craters.)
 
Imagine the TV commentator at the golf match (spoken in a hushed golf-commentator voice): 

"Jtg is lining up his putt.  All the spectators are silent. Jtg lights the fuse, steps back quickly, and BANG! it drops right into the hole! The spectators are all clapping golf-quietly, or it seems that way to me, because I forgot to insert earplugs."
 
Oh, when laying our pieces for Mortar Golf, should we be allowed itty-bitty little gunner's quadrants, or should those be forbidden in the tradition of Modern Mortarmen and Golfers, that is,  "That looks about right."