Golf bores me. . .and I am not easily bored. However, playing mini golf was something I did growing up. A lot. Many summer evenings were spent at a variety of local putt putt ranges. Many colorfully dimpled balls charged through green carpeting, roared through plastered characters, caromed off of rocks, and took occasional dips in chlorine-coated waters on their way to the elusive hole. All for the purpose of beating my fellow golfers and being king of the clubs until the next round. I may incriminate myself, but not every golf club made it back to the clubhouse in one piece due to what I'll call equipment malfunction. These summer rounds were important practice for the Wisconsin Dells Invitational, a mini golf marathon held annually in the Wisconsin's famous tourist trap. Before adulthood and the responsibilities that came with it took over, I along with three other gentlemen took three late summer days and headed to central Wisconsin for a weekend of feasting on food, imbibing, and releasing pent-up frustrations on a tour of the Dells' mini golf paradises. With a seemingly continual flow of money and insults, golf took over. For that weekend and that weekend alone, golf was everything.