My grandma used to live right next to a driving range, which would have been the perfect place to use these. Unfortunately, I'm banned from ever returning there since as a kid (ie, moronic high schooler with too much time on my hands), I used to wait until dusk, sneak down a few yards, strap on a football helmet, and then proceed to race around the range while waving my arms in the air and daring anybody to hit me. Somehow I never got beaned on the head and a few of my friends actually started joining me whenever Friday night was proving too dull for us, but that fun ended when the owner finally let his snarling Dobermans off their leashes. I tell ya, if you've never seen a pack of skinny white boys running for their lives while wearing oversized fishbowls on their heads, you missed your chance that night.
You know, now I think I understand why every time I play golf with my buddies, I end up in last place four holes into the course, get drunk, and wreck the golf cart while trying to joust with giant oak trees.