About a month ago I decided it would be a good idea to join a local sports league to meet more people. The sport? Wiffleball. I chose to get put on a random team because it made no difference to me. About two weeks later I got an email with a list of my teammates; I had been assigned to the "pink team." The pink team. I thought about it for a minute, and then immediately fired up MySpace to make sure all the dudes on my team were straight.

I've lost about twenty pounds running recently, and then over the past couple of months have been lifting weights. I look good. I'm not "big" by any means, but you can see my pecs and all the muscles in my arms. I'm not saying that to brag, (believe you me, I will when the time is right) but because it's important to the story later. Last week I got an email about where and when to pick up my team shirt, so I ran over to the bar and got it.

This thing was a full order of magnitude gayer than my pink polo. Not the 'mix of red and white' pink, but more lipstick lesbian hooker pink. Finally, something to match my collection of thongs. I made sure it was a large, and then unfolded it in all its glory and told the guy running the show that he had to be fucking kidding. I tucked it in my shorts and scurried out of the bar.

Thursday night was our first game. I was running late so I grabbed it and started to put it on over my undershirt as I walked through the parking lot. I knew something wasn't quite right by the way the neck hole felt like it was giving birth to my face, as I jammed it through. I got about one arm in before I aborted the process and realized the undershirt had to go if I wanted a fighting chance. (You MUST wear your team shirt. No exceptions) I looked at the tag once I took it off. It was a Large all right, a Kid's Large.

By the time I had wrestled this thing on my torso it was past time to start, so I headed into the crowded gym. After the awkward silence abated and the chuckling started, the smallest girl on the team, a tiny exotic girl, goes, "Oh my God! They gave you my shirt! Sure wish I kept the one they gave me!!!" and I just began introducing myself as "Perry... still trying to figure out this new dryer."

Here's the thing. I would wear a shirt that says, "I Heart Cock" across the chest, and not give two shits. But the fact that I looked like I was trying to show off my muscles by ordering an extra small shirt, thus making me a huge douchebag, is what drove me nuts. Obviously, that's when things got worse. Guess who my team chose to bat first? Yup.

I got up there in my bright pink halter-top, pulled it back down over my belly button, and swung for the fences. Let me tell you - striking out in a pink muscle shirt is one hell of an icebreaker.

When I went after that first pitch I felt about four major muscle groups tearing in my arms and legs, and the second whiff erased any shred of credibility as I pushed obscenities through my tightly clenched teeth. I walked back to the bench getting a bunch of unenthusiastic high fives, delighted that they had nicknamed me "Extra Small." I can't wait to run into them at the bar and have them start chanting that.

After the game we went to happy hour at the bar. Most of the clientele pointed and whispered, topped off by an older black gentleman introducing himself, saying that, "You sure look like a lot of fun" as his eyes slowly raped me. Regardless, my team is awesome and will undoubtedly be included in these writings.

Especially when half of them have already been passed out on my couches.