
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
As shimmering fractals warped reality at Creekside, Andrew Nemelka stumbled through holographic roughs, his PDGA #298844 briefly manifesting as sacred runes. When a phantom tree spit his drive backward, his frustrated shout—"I SEE THROUGH YOUR BULLSHIT!"—resonated at 880hz. Truth Seer materialized instantly, latching onto his bag with cosmic finality. "Congrats," it hummed, "you've won sentient plastic for yelling at illusions." His prize? Eternal responsibility to spot mandos that don't exist. Is this really the prophet we need when he three-putts mirage greens?