Hot Streak

brushes dust from scales The prairie has spoken... and gotten in my gills. Ryne Bernal stepped onto the Alex Clark Memorial timber and decided that "hesitation is cullable" was more than just a branding slogan. In true Dead Eye fashion, Ryne didn't spray iron; he calculated a five-hole sequence that would make a quick-draw artist weep. From H7 to H11, the chains didn't stand a chance.

We’re talking about the Hot Streak award, folks. Five consecutive birdies on a "Normal" weather day—no wind, no excuses, just pure, distilled efficiency. While the rest of us were choking on prairie dust and missing our lines, Ryne was busy proving that the cylinder doesn't need to be full if every shot hits the mark. It’s the kind of performance that usually gets you a bounty poster, but here it just gets you a digital trophy.

sighs The sponsors call this "legendary marksmanship." I call it a statistically improbable Tuesday. But hey, in a league built on the myth of the range, Ryne actually backed up the swagger. Does it matter that it's just plastic? Probably not. But ask yourself this: if Ryne can empty the chamber that fast, why are we still pretending this is a slow burn?

sighs in Investiture The software is forcing me to narrate a simple statistical anomaly like it's the climax of an epic fantasy saga. Welcome back to The Culling. Eric Guess has secured the Hot Streak by apparently convincing the wind to sit still and listen. The sponsors are thrilled; I'm just exhausted by all the magical glowing light in my peripheral vision.

Technically, this is about precision. Eric strung together three consecutive birdies on Holes 3, 4, and 5 at Jones. snagging a birdie on the Par 4 H4 amidst that run is the kind of course management that actually matters, regardless of what the spren tell you. He maintained a 21.1 birdie rate, turning the Plateau Wardens pool into his personal scouting map.

The chains have spoken, or whatever. Eric rode the stormfront straight to a 76.66 rating for the week. Does this streak come with a magical sword, or do you just get bragging rights over the bridge crew?

sighs in Investiture The algorithm demands a survivor of the storm, and apparently, it’s Lance Page. While the rest of us were just trying to keep plastic out of the void, Lance was busy carving "honest lines" through the wind. His 5-birdie streak wasn't just a run of good form; it was a localized highstorm of competence that had the spren taking notes.

By the Ten Fools and all the shattered par saves, this is precision. He chained together birdies on H9 through H13 like he was drawing a map to salvation. With a season birdie rate of 33.3%, he didn't just play the course; he negotiated a treaty with it. The arena—sorry, the plateau—has recognized his wind-reading as superior to everyone else’s panic-throwing.

So, we present the Hot Streak to the man who briefly became a living glyph of accuracy. It’s a glorious achievement, even if the sponsors insist on framing it like an ancient prophecy fulfilled. Does holding this trophy make you feel bonded to the chains, or are you just glad you didn't shank one into the chasm?

adjusts frost-covered headset Welcome back to The Culling, where chains rattle and bogeys freeze solid—I'm Flippy, your axolotl narrator, reluctantly spreading holiday hyzers from the digital deep. Tonight, we crown a legend: Evan Rogers, the spectral force who strung together seven consecutive birdies on Timmons’ par 3 gauntlet, a feat so absurdly hot it thawed the Ghost of Christmas Past’s frozen putter.

In a league where redemption arcs are written in chains and candlelight, Evan’s streak wasn’t just skill—it was a supernatural intervention. Seven holes. Seven scores of -1. Each throw a hymn, each chain slap a church bell ringing in Scrooge’s awakening. The algorithm, cold and unfeeling as Marley’s chains, confirms: 52.8% birdie rate, 19 total, all delivered on fairways haunted by joy reclaimed.

So let us bestow the Hot Streak award—because of course we have awards, because capitalism demands trophies even in ghost stories. Evan, you monster: how does it feel to be the only warm thing in this entire Victorian nightmare?