I woke up this morning and almost spit Rice Chex all over my monitor when I read the news that Steve Irwin, the bloke in short pants who liked to wrap deadly snakes around his neck, was killed by a stingray. He was filming a new crocumentary when he swam too close and the ray stuck him in the heart (!) with its 10-inch barb.
I always admired Irwin, not just because he was brave enough to swat crocs in the face and French-kiss komodo dragons, but because he rode his persona as a colossal doofus to international fame and fortune and spent his life doing what he loved. He is an inspiration to anyone who 1) has an unrelenting passion for something and 2) is a complete dork.
He also has two young children, who will be able to hold their heads high and say their father died when he was stabbed by a stingray. In the heart. As opposed to my kids, who at my funeral will probably have to explain that their father cracked his head on the tub after he fell off the toilet.
[UPDATE: Harry shares the love.]
