SEP 24, 2010 – 12:00AM

I have a hole in my backside.

Lest you think I’m trying to get all juvenile (as if) in pursuit of virtual eyeballs or even invoking a euphemism to get away with putting something dirty on the Interwebs (a first, I’m sure), rest assured my words are meant at face value.

I honestly, truly have a hole in my backside.

The other day, I slipped out of my beloved khaki shorts — one of a few beloved, broken-in-just-right pair I own — at bedtime and noticed the seat had crossed over from merely translucent to wholly hole-y.

It’s not too bad — yet. It’s not indecent or obscene. No, you can’t see London or France or my Superman Underoos. In fact, someone would have to go out of his/her way and get really close to my backside to spy the hole, and not only would I not encourage such behavior, I’d actively discourage it.

But the hole is there, trust me, and I’m not too happy about it.

Worn-out drawers are part of the whole bike scene.

I’ve never heard of anybody wearing out his britches from driving, even behind the wheel of a seat-of-the-pants sports car, but all that saddle time has done a number on more than one pair of my below-the-belts.

All my favorite jeans are worn at the seat. I don’t get holes in the knees or pockets, but I’m retiring them all the time for backside voids.

My wife, bless her heart, has been known to patch my pants to prolong their lifespan, though I think the gesture is more about her than me. I don’t think she wants me to have decent dungarees so much as she doesn’t want to be married to the guy with his, er, behind hanging out.

She usually puts up with my holiness for a week or so, then my trousers go “missing,” to be replaced by a new pair that has to be broken in.

Man, I hate new pants.

Back to the shorts: It’s not so much the pinhole that worries me. It’s what it might turn into.

I fear someday I’ll be spinning down Sixth Street, I’ll rise out of the saddle, crank out a few turns, then settle back — only to snag the hole on the nose of my saddle.

RRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPP.

Next thing you know, I’m doing a full frontal — or, in this case the full posterior — for all of the rush-hour traffic to see

So I guess until this pair of shortpants mysteriously vanishes, I’d better make sure my undies are clean and befitting a pasty middle-aged guy. I’ll have to save the Underoos for special occasions.