A really fine example just occurred to me (and no, I am not slurping my friend Tom, who knows I am an equal opportunity, opinionated twat) would be #15 at Pac Dunes. This little stretch of land could have been a fairly nondescript par-5, maybe reachable for the bigger hitter, but a piece of ground that is not particularly inspiring - especially when book-ended between that rabid little terrier after #13 and that 300 yard par-6, bitch-slap afterwards.
So, you hit a little cut-slider off the tee on #15 and find yourself choosing between flirting with bunkers in front and left, going for the green, or playing El Pollo - with the safety shot to the right into what looks like an innocuous little depression. For a short knock like me, the choice seems easy - followed by a harmless pitch up the hill and a quick birdie 4.
There is nothing about that hole that would seem particularly salient on most decently conceived golf courses in America - until you discover that gal you took home has broken glass in her who-hoo. You see, that little swale to the right is actually a deep catch-basin, inviting you to lay the turf over your ball or skull it to the 17th tee.
Why you ask? Because Tom understands the dark fears lurking in the minds of idiots like me. It is one thing to whack a ball at full steam over Klondike Hill, content to accept the whim and fate of providence. But no, he cannot resist putting a mound that resembles a witches tit at the top of the swale, turning a relaxed pitch into a blind, constricted swipe; a bit too little and the ball kicks off the back side of Agatha's mammary and runs off the green, a bit too much and that easy-peasy tap-in tweet is now a 30-foot, downhill cliffhanger, inevitably followed by a fucking knee-knocker than has less chance of hitting the hole than I do of waking up with Amy Adams tomorrow morning.
One little feature nobody would ever notice, until that steel-toed boot kicks your juevos back to your rancheros. By then, it is always too late.