Just a reminder that you have a few days to submit your ideas for how Steve and Waki should finish the angry priest video.

So I was on a bachelorette retreat over the weekend but unfortunately I don't have many hilarious stories to relay. There were no penis-shaped accoutrement, no falling down, no throwing up. I did shriek at one point but that was because the spa we were at had a hot tub and a cold plunge pool in the ladies' lounge and I decided to go for the proverbial--actually, literal--plunge. But sorry to disappoint--while there was booze, hot tub action and a Cubs game, nothing out of the ordinary happened.

There was a lot of action last week though back at Wrigley Field in Chicago. First, two players on the same team got into a fistfight, and then the coach got suspended for throwing a fit.

This makes me realize why we all really secretly wish we were professional athletes--not because of the fame or money or hot bods or chance to appear on "Dancing with the Stars": it's because of the things you can get away with on the job that you couldn't in real life.

If I could pull some of the things at my day job that I could if I were a Cub, I would have punched my co-worker Kim in the face when I felt frustrated about her and my performance, and would have had to take a few personal days and maybe be docked some pay but still come back to work. My boss Linda would kick some papers and scream in the face of another dean at Northwestern University if she didn't like one of his calls. I could take the day off if it was raining. I could take steroids so that I could type faster and if I got in trouble for it just name names on who I was getting it from or who else was taking it (KIM.) I could stuff my computer with cork to make it run faster and claim that it was an accident, that I was only doing it when I was working overtime and forgot to take it out during the actual work day. Fireworks would go off when I did a good job on the minutes for the Board of Editors meeting.

On the other hand I would get booed by tens of thousands of people if I forgot a deadline or made a typo drafting a letter for Linda.

But then again, if it just didn't work out, I wouldn't be fired and have to look for a job--I could just be transferred to another town to do exactly the same gig. Not Philadelphia though, I hear the fans there are brutal if you come in any later than 9 AM.