I'll get to my gay-ass goodbyes next week. Instead, I will share with you some escapades from last night's office softball playoff elimination game.

Long and short - we lost by one run in the final inning, ending our season. But in more important news, we almost lost the next generation of future Brendos.

I was running from first to second on an easy double play ball hit to the middle infield. Standing about five feet away from me, the shortstop fields the grounder and - for some reason only known to him - fires the ball as hard as he can... right at my crotch.

There was a collective gasp among all the males on the field. I hit the ground and hit the ground hard. After a moment of reflection, I realized - the ball hit me on the inner thigh. It missed my DNA sacks by this much. This much, I say.

Once I was sure that my walnuts were still in their protective shells, I popped right up, full of adrenaline. Hell, I was downright peppy. I was filled with immediate joy that, in the case of armageddon, I could still repopulate the earth. My fellas are intact. Whew!

At the post-game/ball-rentention celebration at the local pub, I ordered a plate of baby back ribs. The waitress said "Sorry - I just sold the last ribs to that guy."

After a near-death experience, I was not going to be denied my ribly reward. I walked over to the guy and said "How much for the ribs?" At first, he didn't actually believe I was trying to buy his dinner from him, but eventually, he named his price: $15 - a 50% markup from the menu price.

I wasn't sure I was willing to pay the exorbitant price hike, but my teammate Honeymoon stepped up with a fiver. The deal was done. That night I got my ribs AND my balls. And that, my friends, is your classic win-win.