Forget the Iraq war, secret CIA prisons or the 9/11 anniversary. The biggest story in a week filled with news was the death of Steve Irwin, the uber-enthusiastic, snake-pestering "Crocodile Hunter."

Certainly, Irwin was a wholesome, lovable bloke, a real-life TV character you could trust your kids with for an hour, hoping they'd be entertained and knowing they'd learn something. I particularly loved watching his show with my snake-phobic husband.

And — let's all admit it — who among us couch-potato adventurers didn't tune in to see Irwin have close shaves with spitting cobras, black mambas or any other slithering critter whose venom kills in a matter of seconds? After all, that "dainjuh," as Irwin called it, was at the core of his show's popularity.

Which may explain why Irwin's death resonates so.

For an environmentalist who spent his career in the proximity of lethal jaws — something you couldn't bribe most of us to do once — Irwin's death, not in the mandibles of a giant croc but from a gentle stingray, seems too unthinkable, too unfair and too darned random.

If the poor fellow had finally been nailed by a poisonous viper, there would have been lots of pursed lips and muttering about tempting fate once too often.

True, a stingray barb through the heart sounds like a fairly exotic way to shuffle off this mortal coil. Australian authorities say they can't remember the last time such a death occurred.

But for a guy who dealt with the deadliest of reptiles on a daily basis, death by stingray is the equivalent of hiking through the world's war zones only to get mowed down by a scooter outside his front door.

I can't imagine the sad shock that Irwin must have felt as the life ebbed from his body.

If we're really honest, most of us think we have an inkling of how we'll meet our maker.

Lots of us hope to go out like my dear friend, journalist and raconteur George Tucker, who expired last year at age 95 in his own bed after having written a cracking final newspaper column.

Or we think death is practically staring us in the face when we do something "dangerous," like traveling to dicey regions, skiing Double-Black-Diamond slopes or flying just after terrorist attacks. As a white-knuckle flyer, I confess to having a "Holy excrement, why did I do this?" moment with every single take-off.

But the fact is, lots of us will be surprised at how our lives end. Why? Because the mundane stuff is far more dangerous than the "dangerous" stuff.

We don't like to think about it, but we're far more likely to die on a milk run to the nearest Safeway or hooked up to scores of beeping machines in the intensive-care unit than from terrorism, plane crashes, lightning strikes or any other situation where we tend to take great care.

The leading killer in the West isn't al-Qaida or snake bites — two things most sane people fear. Instead, it's heart disease caused by things we love — cheeseburgers, fries, pound cake and potato chips. When's the last time you trembled at the sight of a Big Mac?

Instead of dying from a stroke, colon cancer or auto accidents — which statistics show will get hundreds of thousands of us — we've latched onto the notion that our lives will end in a blaze while engaging in some perceived perilous activity.

Alas, as poor Steve Irwin could attest, none of us knows how we'll go out of this world.

But your mother was right: Always wear clean underwear, because you never know what's going to happen.