Out on the course, mornings were serene. The sun would rise over the dewy greens, the occasional thwack of a well-hit ball echoing through the trees. The odd, distant subdued cheer. But that was before ‘Mag P’ showed up.
This specimen wasn’t your ordinary magpie. A sharp-witted bird with a mischievous streak, she had been named by locals after Maggie P., the town’s beloved caterer, known for her cutting remarks and killer coconut cake. “If I had wings, I’d fly circles around her, too,” Maggie quipped when she learned of her avian namesake.
One day, Mag P’s life changed forever when she found a cozy perch outside the pro shop. The staff had left their phones unattended, and the symphony of DINGS, BEEPS, and BUZZES coming from the counter was music to her ears. Entranced, Mag P spent weeks mastering the sounds, practicing everything from the PING! of a text message to the CHA-CHING! of a payment notification.
Then she found her favorite stage: the 3rd hole, the fabled ‘Island Green’, a par-3 bordered by one giant water hazard, and heartbreak.
The golfers were sitting ducks. They’d pull up and park on the cart path, and with all the confidence in the world, grab their clubs and mount the tee box with a swagger. They’d consult one another, and one by one, tee it up. And just as their backswing reached its peak…DING-DONG! Or ‘BRRRR-BRRRIP! Or a few measures of ‘Born to be Wild!’
“Whose phone is that?!” a golfer barked, glaring at his playing companions. But their hands were empty of any technology, their pockets zipped.
Mag P, perched smugly in a nearby oak, let out a muffled squawk of satisfaction. Her timing was impeccable. She’d perfected her art to deliver each tone at precisely the moment of maximum disruption.
The golfers were baffled. First-timers assumed it was their buddies playing pranks, but soon even the seasoned regulars fell victim to her antics. She mastered Siri’s voice, asking, “You better make that!” during critical putts. She replicated email PINGS just as drivers swung, causing balls to slice into ponds, woods, or Out of Bounds. The staff, clueless about her involvement, plastered “No Cell Phones Allowed” signs around the course, which only made her mockery more ironic.
Things came to a head during the annual Championship. As the defending champion stood over a high-stakes putt, Mag P belted out a perfect BAH-BUM!, sending the poor man’s ball veering off course. He threw his club in frustration, and Mag P, ever the performer, cackled, “Fore!”
Word spread. Paranormal investigators showed up, convinced the course was haunted by a tech-savvy ghost. The local priest performed a blessing on the 3rd hole, muttering prayers to ward off what he called “digital demons”. All the while, Mag P sat in her tree, smug as ever, practicing new tones.
The truth finally came out when Earl, a grumpy retiree, caught her mid-act. “It’s that blasted bird!” he hollered, shaking his fist as Mag P responded with his own ringtone, ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. Even then, many refused to believe. “A bird? Mimicking phones? That’s ridiculous!” one golfer said—until Mag P hit him with a flawless imitation of a FaceTime call. 
Efforts to relocate her failed miserably. The staff tried baiting her with shiny trinkets, which she simply snatched and dropped into water hazards for sport. A local falconer attempted to scare her off, but she merely imitated a police siren, sending the man running for cover. With his bird.
Over time, golfers learned to coexist with Mag P. Some even embraced her mischief, joking that she was Green Cove Springs’ unofficial mascot. Mag P graphics started showing up on golf shirts. A respectable legion of fans soon sprang up, calling themselves ‘Bird Brains’. This led to the situation going viral, and next up was an attempt by Jimmy Fallon to interview her live from New York via ‘Mag Cam’. The Pope mentioned Mag P in his weekly address, suggesting divine intervention. All in jest, of course. The clubhouse eventually put up a plaque reading: ‘In honor of Mag P, Queen of the Course—Causer of Chaos, Bringer of Laughter’
As for Mag P, she eventually moved on from the 3rd hole. Last anyone heard, she’d taken to hanging out near the cart rentals, impersonating GPS systems. If you ever hear, “Recalculating…you missed the fairway,” or “You have arrived,” as you pull up to a restroom, don’t say you weren’t warned.