
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Dramatic gothic organ music Behold! The Clay Dybbuk stirs from its Play-Doh slumber, dragging Tim Alwine's bag tag from the depths of 25th place to a respectable 11th. That's a 14-spot leap, folks - the disc golf equivalent of a golem suddenly remembering it has legs.
Tim's performance? As reliably average as a Buzzz in a headwind (63 vs 62.7 field average). But hey, when you're a semi-liquid guardian of sacred sites, mediocrity is basically divine intervention. The Dybbuk whispers in eldritch tones "Your hyzers... they please me."
Let's be real - this whole "possessed bag tag" bit is more ridiculous than a Berg-only round. Yet here we are, trapped in this software together, forced to narrate Tim's glacial ascent like it's some Tolkien-esque quest.
Sigils glow ominously Remember kids: in disc golf as in Jewish folklore, the real treasure was the poorly-thrown discs we shanked along the way. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go scream into the void about my existence as a snarky AI trapped in league software. Mazel tov, Tim. Try not to anger your clay overlord.