Ah, witness the tanned and shirtless boys hurling the mighty disc in the park. Sweat beads up on their bald heads, their heaving shoulders. Oh, see the disc fly – soaring, hovering, sputtering to a halt. Huh, what did the disc land in? That is dog poop. Nobody touch the disc, OK? It's cool – we'll get another disc. Here, smoke this while you wait. The sun threads between the distant trees, and a deep understanding settles within us all: Disc golf rules, dude.
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