Look, if I ever come here and tell you Adam's dead and it did not involve:

A) A freak ferret accident
B) Taking two in the chest in traffic
C) Cancer or
D) Shooting a masked bandit with his own gun, then being smothered by the dead body

would you please immeadiately begin taking up a collection for my legal defense fund? Because somehow, I don't think the legal system will accept the "accidental manslaughter -- comedy" as a valid defense.

Actually, maybe you should start sending in your donations now.

Okay, so here's what happened. We were watching the Brazil/France quarterfinal game. It was late. We were caffeinated. Do you see where this was headed?

If you missed the game, please know Brazil was not playing in top form. It was as if each player had mentally checked out and gone on a shopping spree. Adam said as much during the first half. "They're not even trying," he said in that Disgusted Sports Guy voice he only uses late in the Formula One season. "They're nancying around the field imagining what they're going to buy when they win the cup. 'Oh, I'm going to buy a Rolls Royce, a Range Rover and a Renault.' 'Oh, yeah? I'm going to invent the first-ever bobble-finger bobblehead! My head will bobble! My fingers will bobble! I'll be a millionaire!'"

Well, how do I not get in on that action? So I said, in my deepest voice, "'Hey guys, with my money, I'm going to become a woman,'" which upon reflection, wasn't the most politically correct crack I've ever made, but it was enough to make Adam inhail his Mountain Dew.

"Seriously," he said after he finished wiping his nose and flipping me off. "Did you have to flavor my sinuses?"

I apologized and turned back to the game. But after another minute, I went back to the Transgendered Voice and said, "Do you like my soccer pumps? Nike made them special."

Which is where Adam nearly died. I hadn't realized he was trying to drink again, except this time, he'd already swallowed and proceeded to breathe in the Dew.

So for a wild moment, there's my husband, doubled over on the couch, clutching his mouth, face red, sides shaking, tears streaming down his face, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other extending the middle finger and I don't know what. He tried croaking help a couple of times and ended up spitting all over the sofa cushion. "Oh, God," he said when he had recovered. "Oh, holy jeeze. I almost died there. You suck."

And it's true, I do. I totally should have gone for the Easy Spirit punchline instead.

He's fine, of course, and you probably don't need to start saving up just yet, but forewarned is forearmed.

. . . maybe I should set up a PayPal link. Just to be safe.