Nearly eighty, Mike played golf daily. But golf brought torments: he simply couldn't putt, wrecking scores with frequent missed putts.
One morning he announced to everyone, "I'm terminally ill, boys. Cancer."
"That's terrible," his friends cried
"Don't worry," Mike said, "I've got years left yet. Apparently I'll die of something else first."
Just then, he tapped in a short putt. "That's a – "
"FORE!" The shout from behind was too late – Mike was killed instantly.
The funeral was well-attended. At Mike's request, his ashes were buried in a hole on the 18th green. Trying to pour them in, they missed.