Jack from Santa Barbara writes: I have a friend who curses pretty regularly on the course; it helps him blow off steam. The other day, we were paired with someone who was clearly offended. Should my pal dial it back?
Whoever said profanity is a failure of the imagination never gave much thought to all the playful ways there are to curse. This is true both on and off the course. The Etiquetteist has been known to use the f-word here and there, and not just fore. The other one. It can come in handy when a putt lips out or a drive banks off a tree into the drink.
Which is to say: The impulse to swear is understandable.
Whether such lingo is socially acceptable is another matter. And as with most things golf, it depends — on the company and the context. The rules around speaking like a sailor on the course are pretty much the same as they are in life: not in front the kids, the boss, the babysitter or almost anyone you’ve just met. Save it for your buddies who know that when you say, “Oh, for f—’s sake,” you’re aiming it at yourself, not them.
Self-directed swearing can even be amusing. A golfer muttering, “Nice shot, you [bleeping] genius,” after blading one into a bunker is really just poking fun at their own folly. But when the language turns outward — when someone barks, “Don’t talk to my f—ing ball!” — the dynamic shifts. That’s not humor; that’s hostility, a sign of some deeper internal darkness. The Etiquetteist can only wonder what that class of foul-mouth does behind the wheel.
Profanity has its place. It also has its limits. It can be funny and cathartic in small doses. But when every other word is four letters, it starts sounding like arrested development. Witness the Ryder Cup hecklers who thought screaming obscenities at Rory McIlroy qualified as banter.
There’s a line between expressive and excessive, and it’s not too hard to recognize. Even the Etiquetteist knows when to hold his tongue — most of the time. When in doubt, read the room, and draw a reference from your off-course life. If you wouldn’t say it at the dinner table, you probably shouldn’t shout it across the fairway.
Save the full-throated meltdowns for the car ride home.
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