Sockville-Bagginses

Every day before I leave for work, my wife tells me to be careful. She's afraid I'm going to get run over by a car or something. I appreciate the sentiment, but, as I've reminded her hundreds of times, being careful doesn't have much to do with it. One can be as careful as a neurosurgeon performing brain surgery and still get struck down by misfortune.

Just ask Kobe Bryant.

The awful reality is that we never know when hard luck will befall us, and all the precautions in the world don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy, dangerous world.

Case in point: today, as I was getting dressed, I pulled a pair of socks out of my drawer, only to notice that they were mismatched. Subsequently, I rummaged in the drawer until I located my sock's twin, bundled up -- in what I colloquially like to refer to as a sock grenade -- with a stranger.

I yanked my sock free, but it was still bunched up, so I cracked it like a whip to unfurl it.

And in doing so clocked myself in the nuts.

Now, a bundled-up sock to the scrotum may not sound very painful, but believe me, it is. I felt a jolt of pain, shouted out, and curled up in a ball (no pun intended) on the floor.

My wife of course found this the funniest thing in the world, going so far as to suggest we take a photo of me writhing in agony. Needless to say, I was not amused.

As far as my ongoing list of scrotal assaults goes, it wasn't the nadir, but it was close.