Marc T. Lewis' epic, 1,383-word ode to his sad sticks begins like this:
These clubs have been with me since high school, forty pounds ago, when the world was my oyster, long before that oyster was left out in the sun to sour, uneaten and spoiled.
And the melodrama continues:
I bought these clubs before I met the girl who would become my wife. I met her eleven years ago when I was sixteen and had a stomach that no one who knows me now would believe, ripped like a little Rambo. I had these clubs when I was a young bachelor, hair down to my shoulders, tearing up the town in a 1990 Volvo 740 SEL with the sunroof open and the road before me like some great American Dream ready to be snatched, the way candy is from a baby, or a kiss from an easy and drunk woman. These clubs moved from the Volvo to the 1980 midnight blue Chevy Camaro Berlinetta, a thing unlike any other thing, and they watched me fall in love with my wife, a woman who has mastered both looking perfect and a number of delicious casseroles. (She's heartbreakingly beautiful and comforted me each time these golf clubs kicked me in the crotch.)
The rest of the novel can be found here. The Raleigh, N.C.-based writer is asking $125, but he promises to throw in the Bazooka driver for $200.