"Why," she asks as we stand in the queue at airport security, "have you got a golf ball in your jacket? You know we're about to get onto a plane."I have no reply.
"What if it falls out of your pocket? Think of the embarrassment."
I'm thinking of more than the embarrassment. I'm thinking of impending and awful firey death.
"Yeah," I finally say, "It could fall out just as we're coming in to land, roll downhill into the cockpit, get jammed under a pedal... then..."
"What? WHAT?"
"Wooomph!"
"Woomph?"
"No. Wooomph, with three o's. Think Final Destination. On second thoughts - four o's and and extra 'h'. Woooomphh."
The ball goes into my hand luggage.
We survive.
9 comments:
Fiery death surely merits four Os...
Woooomph.
Go on. Mock my phobia. I'll just cower in the corner.
*wibble*
Dawson
Hmmm. I didn't realise your phobia was *that* specific. Now we know it'll give our therapy* some focus!
*stuffing you full of ativan and valium
Hey! Save some for the rest of us!
Wow, that was close.
I'm still nervous.
Golf balls are more deadly then I thought.
Oh, my phobia is very, very specific. Woooomphh! by plane gives me TEH PH3AR.
This calls for more than a sedative. This calls for GENERAL ANAESTHETIC.
I once put a golf ball in a pillar box. Let's see them play it from there ...
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