As I wrote yesterday, Saturday was the big kickball playoffs- six hours in the frozen tundra of Sharon Meadows playing single-elimination playoff games. Followed, of course, by the end-of-the-season party and other bits of mayhem. In other words, a lot of alcohol was involved.

Somewhere in the blur I remember slam dancing at the club, somebody diving onto a table full of cups of beer, and having the ball repeatedly kicked over my head. The "highlight" of the night, or more like the thing that'll become endlessly told and retold for the rest of the kickball team's natural born life, came much later. Much, much later. Like this evening when I talked to a friend who missed all the partying but heard all the gossip.

After the kickball games, the nap, the after-party, and the drinks at the Pig & Whistle, someone on the team brought a bunch of us over to his apartment, conveniently located across from the bar. Bad idea as we spent most of the rest of the night throwing things around and knocking things over. The next morning, the guys' roommate stumbled into his bathroom, the one closest to the living room, only to find that somebody left a little something for him. We'll leave what it was up to the imagination, but let's just say it's something kind of involving the natural result of leaving a stack of Maxims by the toilet.

Now that the story is out, the big question is who spuged it? Most guesses involve the friend of a friend who came over late in the night mainly because only somebody who doesn't really know anyone is capable of doing what was done. Or so one would hope. We would also like to say two other things. The first, of course, is iyick. Seriously, iyick. The second thing is this: good ole kickball. Always worth a good story afterwards.