Crikey, Steve, we'll miss ya!

The death of Steve "The Crocodile Hunter" Irwin was the second part of a trilogy of horror that touched my life during a recent trip to Florida.

I was down there for a bachelor party and the first night had gone without a hitch, which meant tons of booze with no hangover. Lathered in SPF 50 sunblock, I spent the next afternoon body-surfing while baby boomers teased me about sharks.

Things turned bizarre later that night at a bar when I saw what appeared to be chicken soup on my shorts. Seconds later, an anonymous member of our party spewed his main course on me, accompanying the crab dip he already ralphed onto my Dickies.

This person , who has sworn retribution on anyone who talks, insists a drink "went down the wrong pipe." It had nothing to do with the God-awful mind-erasers we all sucked down.

The next morning, while dining on jelly doughnuts and coffee, a party-goer received a text message: The Crocodile Hunter got killed by a sting ray.

Not Steve, I insisted, and definitely not some lame-ass sting ray.

But, crikey, it was true, and I was kind of upset. I've been watching this loveable madman since day one, when my ex-brother-in-law and I would sit in my mom's basement and laugh our asses off while Steve jumped on camels or flashed a toothy smile after breaking a finger.

My wife won't admit it, but I got her hot with my Crocodile Hunter impersonation. I would pretend she was a large, threatening beast who I wanted to make out with: "Whoa, she's a bute. Look at 'er eyes, look at 'er lips. She's saying, "Stay away from me, I'm a large, dangerous predator.' "

Steve loved huge, aggressive animals so much, I figured he would love my monstrous dog from South Africa, too, so I named her Bindi after his daughter. I even defended Steve when he dangled his infant son in front of a croc, 'cause dammit, he knew what he was doing -- except in the water, I guess.

Getting pulled under by a 16-foot croc or fanged by a poisonous Taipan would have been a fitting end for Steve. A barb to the heart from a sting ray is inappropriate. He deserved better.

Steve, if you can hear me, you were one hell of a bloke with a real set of marbles.

Still reeling from the tragedy, I tried to get boarding passes, check luggage and go through security in 30 minutes in Orlando. I made it back to Philly, but my luggage didn't.

My puke-soaked shorts fermented in my suitcase somewhere in America for days. It came back eventually. I just wish I could say the same for Steve.