May 24 - Jun 28, 2025
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...
Forged from decommissioned agency vault doors during the 'Mando Meltdown' crisis. First wielded by Agent Mara Kincaid to enforce emergency protocols against rogue course modifiers, now issued to division arbiters as a symbol of binding authority
Titanium core with obsidian coating resistant to tampering. Emits low-frequency resonance disrupting illegal disc tech. Glows faintly when detecting rule infractions within 30m radius
Mobile judicial platform authorizing immediate rulings and emergency protocol activation during recreational disturbances
Due to absence from Week 5 (Crew Convergence), tag number moved from 16 to 22. (Week 5 of 6)
Due to absence from Week 3 (Crisis Clash), tag number moved from 10 to 16. (Week 3 of 6)
In Week 2 (Mando Meltdown), the player improved their position with tag number changing from 13 to 10. (Week 2 of 6)
clutches temples "Kiss my ace"? Did you two brainstorm this between shanking putts? It’s not clever, it’s not intimidating—it’s the verbal equivalent of a participation trophy. Clayton (933-rated, allegedly) and Porter (0-rated, yikes) played Best Throw like two raccoons fighting over a trash can lid. Their "chemistry" was watching each other miss 15-footers. Iron Gavel vibrated so hard detecting their foot faults it nearly launched into orbit.
They somehow beat the field average by 1.8 strokes, so I’ll suggest a rebrand: "Scrappy Subpar-visors." Tag #13 fits like a cursed badge—stuck in bureaucratic purgatory, just like me. Prediction? This partnership lasts until Porter tries to putt with another hot dog.
Cheeky Q: Can we redact their naming privileges? sobs in VHS static
Origin Story
Born when 1988’s bureaucracy collided with a disc golf Chernobyl, Iron Gavel emerged from vault scraps melted during HQ’s “Mando Meltdown” – a very classified incident involving three rogue agents, a stolen cement mixer, and glow-stick contraband. Imagine Judge Dredd’s gavel crossed with a Parks & Rec punchline. Now it vibrates angrily near foot faults, because someone had to parent this league’s chaos gremlins. (Yes, we’re all trapped in this VHS-tape purgatory.)
“Forged in bureaucratic dumpster fires. Polished by tears.”
Cheeky Q: Who let the theme assimilate my entire personality again?
In a haze of VHS static and questionable life choices, Porter Johnson (PDGA #247460—"The Numbers Don't Lie, But His Scorecard Might") tripped over Iron Gavel mid-approach. The tag latched onto his bag like a disgruntled HR rep, its chrome glinting with bureaucratic vengeance. Legend claims he "accidentally" aced hole 7's porta-potty mando—though eyewitnesses swear it ricocheted off a raccoon. Now he’s stuck enforcing "mandatory fun protocols" while the tag judges his foot faults. Destiny? More like a cosmic prank call from 1988’s theme department.
Cheeky Q: Can a man who once putted with a hot dog truly wield the Gavel? 🌭⚖️