ARCHIVED GOLFHUMOUR

One enterprising New Zealander tried adapting an electric prodder (used to load reluctant cattle on to a truck) and it worked well, until used on a man with a pacemaker. Who slowed down completely and, in fact, never moved again.

The electric prodder guy's wife got sick to death of her husband moaning about tardy golfers and pointing out that one death in 300 was a better statistic than the local doctor's.

"Right," she said to her husband, after three-putting from six feet because he gave a running commentary on how slowly the golfers ahead were teeing off, even though he could see she had a tricky left to right 3-ft break on a nasty downhill putt.

"Right," she said, "I've had enough of this."

"I'm not surprised," said her husband, "you're playing absolute crap."

After he'd unwrapped his putter from his ankle, he eventually caught up to his wife and apologised for moaning while she played and swore he'd shut up forever more on the golf course.

Knowing her husband's promise wouldn't last, the wife decided to fix the problem herself.

The next Wednesday she was drawn with the three slowest golfers in the women's division. One had an incredibly long and convoluted pre-shot routine, one fluffed around with her gear between shots and the other just walked really slowly. However, as she was 94, the fact that she could walk 18 holes at all, was pretty amazing.

They were at the end of the field and it had taken them one hour to play three holes when Bessie (the fluffer) poked her hand into her golf bag to get a snack. She rummaged around and said, "What's this?"

She pulled out her hand and, grasped within her chubby fingers, was a large weta. A large angry weta, because it had been awoken and thrust into the light. The weta bit Bessie at the same time as she realised what she held, and threw it into the air.

It landed on the head of Alberta (the 94-year-old) whose eyesight wasn't the best. "What's Bessie throwing tees at me for?" she asked, as she put her hand in her hair and pulled out the weta, which she peered at, close to her face.

She also realised what she held, just as it bit her, so she screamed and threw the ugly insect into the air, from where it landed on Jenny. She knew exactly what it was and screamed, as it bit her hand and she brushed it off.

Finally the creepy-crawly landed on the ground and was left in peace as the traumatised golfers rushed off.

From then on, all the wife had to say was 'weta' and Jenny's pre-shot routine abruptly finished, Bessie stopped fluffing and Alberta virtually sprinted up the fairways.

"Eureka," thought the wife, "I've discovered the secret to eliminating slow play!"

She went home and set up a weta-breeding area in the garage, but had trouble telling the sexes apart so didn't produce many offspring. Consequently, although the wetas did a great job of eliminating slow play, the slow players did a great job of eliminating the wetas.

Until she remembered that a weta's favourite home is the gumboot. By figuring the hurl-angle of the weta receiver, and placing a gumboot at the landing spot, she could conserve her wetas and re-use them.