Here she is, folks, your cart. I'm sure you're anxious to get out there and hit some golfs, but state law requires that I go over a few safety guidelines before handing over the keys to this bad boy. This will only take a minute of your time.
While the cart is in motion, keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle - unless there is something that you really want to grab or kick. For instance, a bodacious cake shaped like a tight butt falls out of the sky, or a different cake descends, this one in the form of a soccer ball.
Do not drive toward the edge of a cliff, turn the wheel back and forth only to realize that the steering has failed, then stomp on the brakes which no longer work. There is a very high chance that doing so will result in your cart tumbling down into the abyss, especially if you throw your arms in front of your face at the last moment and scream.
If you have a military radio and a GPS, please leave them in the locker room. Don't take the items with you, then call in an airstrike on your exact coordinates.
You see the three story loop de loop out there between the 8th and 9th holes? The one that's on fire, with all those spikes lining its sides, near the river of blood? That is entirely for decoration. If you feel the temptation to drive your golf cart through that sweet marvel of daredevil engineering, we can not be held responsible for the outcome of your actions.
Please refrain from noticing a strange shadow encompassing your cart, then looking up and shrieking, recoiling in horror as the foot of an enormous monster comes down upon you.
Do not lay down in front of your golf cart and have your partner drive over your head, just to test how comfortable those tires are. They are very comfortable. Take my word for it. We don't want anyone becoming so relaxed that they fall asleep and hold up all of the golfers behind them.
If the battery runs low or drains completely, please use a call box and wait for one of our technicians to assist you. Under no circumstances should you rip the beating heart out of your chest and wire it to the cart. Ignore all those parts under the hood that are specifically designed to be attached to a human heart, and the large instructional sticker that spells out the entire process with helpful illustrations.
A scarred man in a Lamborghini with roof-mounted guns and bladed hubcaps might pull up next to you and rev his engine. Do not accept his challenge. The race he runs is paved with the tortured souls of his defeated opponents. He cannot be defeated. He has a learner's permit, and his supervising adult is Satan.
Do not drive your golf cart through the minefield. It doesn't matter how slow you go, or how observant you might be. It's probably not worth risking your life for that orange stuffed bear on the marble pedestal at the center of the minefield. Now that I think about it, though, that is a pretty big stuffed bear. Seems like it's at least three times as valuable as a normal one. Huh.
Let's say you discover a magic lantern while looking for an errant ball. You rub it, and out pops a genie who offers to grant you three wishes. Please do not get into the golf cart and wish to be teleported into the heart of the sun.
Several zones have been designated as shooting ranges for fully automatic rifles and bazookas. You should take great care not to drive through these areas, weaving in and out of the practice targets that are being fired upon. If you absolutely must do so, please keep a small object such as a lighter, badge, or bible in a pocket near your chest to catch any potentially fatal projectiles.
Do not pull up to a full-length mirror and whisper "John Daly" three times. Sinister laughter will follow, accompanied by a haze of cigarette smoke. You will wake up in a Hooters some hours later in a pair of plaid slacks, bags of ice taped to your sides where your love handles used to be.
When you return the golf cart, please remember to exit the vehicle. Do not stay inside as it is picked up with a large magnet, placed into the Crusher Of Questionable Necessity, and compressed into a chunk of metal, plastic, and flesh the size of a Rubik's Cube. Not a normal Rubik's Cube, either, but one of those tiny versions that double as keychains.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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