This was on what I saw in my mailbox today:
Now I hear the CinC shanks like a side of mutton so I can see where El Tigre would need to lend his expertise (yeah, I know he's lining up a putt; he probably shanks those as well), and I realize that this went to print before the shit storm hit the cliched fan, but this may not be the image the usually scandal-less sport may want. Well, scandal-less except for John Daly's drinking but whatev..
I'd also be little leery of taking any tips whatsoever from him; no knowing what you might catch.
And here's a thought: Keep. It. In. Your. Fucking (no pun intended). Pants. And if you can't seem to manage the self control of the average cabbage, don't get married. And for the love of all that's holy, don't, please DON'T, bring kids into this sewage you have for a life.
(By the way, I don't usually read this. I don't even know how I started getting it. But, yes, I own golf clubs, have been known to watch tournaments (especially the Masters and U.S. Open) and I can name more than one piss-poor-excuse-for-a-human-being golfer.)