However, when night comes everything changes. No longer do I serve as a useless stick of metal in which rich people like to use to attempt to be athletic. Nor do I serve the barbaric function of low-budget gang members too poor to purchase a gun to beat others into submission. No, instead I serve my handsome master as the light-switcher. No longer does he have to get out of bed and walk all the way to the door to turn off the light. Instead, while he is comfortably tucked in, all he has to do is grab me by the handle and maneuver me to the light switch, and slam on it to turn off the lights.
Who says golf clubs are useless?
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