A mulligan? You want I should give you a mulligan? You smug little... Play it. I don't care what Jim says, you freak, Jim is back at the tee. I sure as hell didn't invite you out to the course today, and if it were up to me, I'd send your pathetic ass back to the club house. Timothy. What the hell kinda name is that? In my whole life I must have met a million Tims, but not a single one who kept calling himself Timothy after he was eight years old.
You think you're something slick, don't you Timothy? You think just because you're on the course, and you're wearing a Nike jumpsuit, and Jim invites you to a game of golf that you can start holding up the goddamn game? Start messing with my daily shot practice? Start taking a mulligan when you're only twenty yards off the fairway? You're damn lucky I don't run you over to the bunker and stick a rake down your uppity throat.
What? What, now you're crying? Aren't you something like twenty five years old Tim? Can't you play a man's game of golf Tim? Wipe that crap out of your eye, because you're going to hit the ball right where it is, and if you so much as whimper for these last four holes, I will never, ever golf with Jim again. You, it's a given that you're never coming again. You smug little golf punk.