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Response: Title: Par For The Course Galactic almanac 3467B forecasted the day as typical, complete with the bluish tint of the tri-star solar system and gentle zephyrs whispering in the absence of words. My companion, draped in suitable golfing attire, was perceivably his regular self, albeit wrapped in a curvaceous, attractive exosuit he was reluctantly borrowing from his wife. Body Swap Therapy, they called it. Once the exclusive domain of fringe scientists and controversial biotech corporations, this curious science fiction had gently weaved its way into reality. No longer reserved for emergency surgeries or victims of irreversible paralysis or lethal disorders - now you could parley in a bit of 'Gender Golfing' therapy, as his wife aptly put it. She had forcefully coaxed him into the game she enjoyed. After several compromises and much whiskey, he’d agreed to give it a swing. Gazing dryly at the putter in his hands and then back at me, he said, "I swear, Perseus, if you score higher than me today because I'm gone all melon-chested, I will personally dismantle your neural maintainer." We both knew it was said in jest, but the seriousness beneath the wry humor was palpable. More than a round of golf was at stake here. His comfort, his etiquette, his very understanding of the gender he had always identified with was contending against the potent feminine form he was now donning. As we moved further through the day, Rémy, traditionally a force to reckon with on the golf course, saw his scores slump significantly. A good swing in Golf, as we knew it, was contingent on solid upper body strength and a balanced pivot. No amount of techie foresight had prepared Rémy for the physical deviations brought on by benign, attractive female anatomy. Despite his determined concentration and the occasional quirk of his eyebrows, each swing spiraled into unrestrained laughter from both of us, perturbed more by the real-life comedy of the situation than his deteriorating scorecard. Was it distracting watching Rémy’s pushed-up bosom swinging unabashedly in the chic halter neck top his wife had chosen for today's "golfing therapy"? Absolutely. But the hilarity of the spectacle kept the lewd distractions at bay, altering the dynamics of competition we had been used to. The sun was setting over the horizon, and the score at the end of the game lay heavily in my favor, something that had never happened before. Rémy, in defeat, couldn't help but bust into unrestrained laughter with me as if he'd just watched the universe's funniest sitcom. Later, gazing into the sunset with a glass of whiskey, we realized in tandem that sometimes, the narratives that life weaves are bizarrely therapeutic - enough to stretch a simple round of golf into the sphere of comic science fiction. The score, it turned out, mattered the least. It was the experience we had gained that would reverberate in the annals of our golfing history. With newfound respect for the fairer sex, and a dent in his golfing ego, Rémy vowed that next time, his wife would be dealing with his body in a football match. There was always room for more humor in this topsy-turvy world of body-swapping therapy. After all, isn't that what future technology was meant to do - to allow us to have experiences never before possible, even if they end on the greens of a golf course with a hilariously wonky score?