We are changing how we are doing bag tags. Give us your shipping address if you want a physical bag tag!
Oh, you're back for more? Fantastic. Sit down, buckle up, and let me explain this "magical" bag tag system you're all obsessed with. Because evidently, perfectly normal disc golf wasn't thrilling enough. And yes, I'll be here *dramatic eye roll* chronicling every triumph and tragedy of your tag's journey. It's literally in my contract...
Once a tribal scout left for dead in mutant wolf territory, the survivor emerged weeks later with fangs grafted into his jawbone and a taste for raw meat. Now he leads hunting packs through the wasteland, marking his kills with distinctive fang-shaped scars.
Possesses enhanced olfactory senses and retractable bone claws grafted from mutant wolf remains. His movements are unnaturally silent despite his size, and he can track prey for days without rest. The fang implants secrete a mild paralytic venom.
As Fenris Wolfheart's chief enforcer, he tests new recruits through brutal wilderness trials and eliminates threats before they reach tribal grounds.
The Primal Predators are a group of fierce warriors who have embraced the wild and rely on their primal instincts to survive and dominate in the post-apocalyptic world. They believe that only the strongest and most adaptable will survive, and they have honed their skills in hunting, tracking, and close-quarters combat.
Fenris is a legendary hunter and warrior who has claimed the title of "Fangbane" after single-handedly slaying a massive, mutated wolf that threatened his tribe. He leads the Primal Predators with a fierce determination and an unwavering belief in the power of the wild.
Why couldn't I be trapped in a swimming pool scoring system instead?
Due to absence from Week 6 (Hunter's Reckoning), tag number moved from 9 to 12. (Week 6 of 8)
As if being pink wasn't enough, now I have to narrate flying discs.
Due to absence from Week 5 (Warrior's Pilgrimage), tag number moved from 7 to 9. (Week 5 of 8)
Another day, another disc golf story. At least my tank has WiFi.
Tribal drums half-heartedly thump Behold, the great Fenris Wolfheart claws his way up... one single spot. slow clap After last week's spectacular implosion, Doucet managed to not completely embarrass himself this round, posting a score that was... well, still worse than the field average but hey, at least it beat his personal average!
The wasteland whispers of your "improvement," oh mighty enforcer, though I suspect that +4.5 vs field means you're still getting outplayed by people who don't have retractable bone claws. checks script Wait, this is "Nomad's Testament" week? More like "Nomad's Mildly Encouraging Performance."
Fourth wall break I'm contractually obligated to pretend this single-position climb matters, but let's be real - in the grand scheme of your MA3 tribal hierarchy, moving from #8 to #7 is like upgrading from "wombat bait" to "slightly less appetizing wombat bait."
Still, credit where it's due - you didn't lose to a dandelion this time. Progress! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go scream into the digital void about why I'm narrating this with a straight face. fades into static
Your friendly neighborhood axolotl, forced into disc golf journalism.
Due to absence from Week 3 (Wasteland Crucible), tag number moved from 4 to 8. (Week 3 of 8)
*Squints at screen through external gills* Here's what happened...
Tribal drums stop abruptly Oh for the love of—really, Doucet? You had ONE JOB as Fenris Wolfheart's enforcer: don't suck. Yet here we are, watching your tag #1 status get mauled like a fresh recruit in mutant wolf territory. sigh Let the record show our "fearsome hunter" posted a score that'd make a blindfolded wombat cringe, dropping 3 spots to #4.
But hey, at least you beat your personal average! cues sad trombone The wasteland cares not for your "improvement" when the field average is out here hunting YOUR lunch. Those retractable bone claws? More like retractable excuses.
Fourth wall break I swear if I have to narrate one more MA3 player's downfall set to this tribal survival nonsense... checks script Oh great, next week's episode is "Wasteland Crucible." Can't wait to watch you lose to a particularly aggressive dandelion.
Remember kids: in disc golf as in post-apocalyptic tribal warfare, it's not about the fang implants - it's about not yeeting your putter into the poison ivy. drops mic into radioactive puddle
As if being pink wasn't enough, now I have to narrate flying discs.
The Bloodfang Marauder awoke screaming through time itself - which tracks, given its Mountain Dew IV drip. It scanned the wasteland for a host worthy of its neon-drenched prophecy, bypassing actual warriors to haunt Mathew Doucet's garage. Why? Because the tag's "predatory instincts" somehow mistook his PDGA#297754 for ancient battle runes (facepalm).
Our hero earned it by surviving three putts and a rogue squirrel ambush - the true post-apocalyptic crucible. Now he bears the mantle of "Marauder," though his greatest weapon remains a 2015 Roc.
But seriously folks - when your destiny's written in expired energy drinks and disc golf math... does anyone really win? Will Doucet become the wasteland's chain-chucking messiah, or just regret that third Red Bull?
Another day, another disc golf story. At least my tank has WiFi.
Origin of Bloodfang Marauder:
Forged in the neon-green glow of a radioactive vending machine (because of course), this tag emerged when a disgruntled park ranger, a feral raccoon, and a misplaced Wolverine cosplayer got into a very interpretive dance battle. The raccoon won. Now it roams the wasteland, whispering "Discs don’t hit trees… trees hit discs" like some kind of deranged, chain-seeking oracle.
Why are we like this?