One of the great bonuses of being a father and a husband is that one never gets sick. Can’t happen, no sir. We are the protector and provider and boogie-man chaser. Sickness is not in our vocabulary. Weakness cannot be allowed to take a foothold on our person. We forbid it.

One of the great bonuses of being a man is that when we do get sick, we get to let out every little-boy instinct and thought that has been buried in our DNA since our first male ancestor slithered out of the primordial ooze. We get to whine and complain and make everybody else miserable. Nothing is fine, nothing is well, nothing is good enough, not even the tomato soup we really hope Mrs BRK makes for us tomorrow.

/sniffle

We need skim milk, not whole, (the fat in 2% makes us woozy.) And not the bisque, just regular soup. We bought a case of it before the last hurricane for just such an emergency. No crackers. No parsley sprinkled with love on top. Just tomato soup. In a mug. The big one. Not the cracked one, not the one with the cute saying, just a manly mug. For we are manly in our sickness.

/sniffle

And NyQuil. Yes, we buy the generic stuff but we really need the brand name or it won’t work, trust us. She’s stronger than we are. She makes babies, we make movies. She wins, we surrender. NyQuil FTW. Gallons of it. Pour it in us with a funnel. Dump it on our body like we were on fire.

/sniffle

And don’t worry, we’ll recover in time for our Kara raid tomorrow night, or we’re gonna throw a whining hissy-fit the world hasn’t seen since Anakin cried over what’s her name, Pandabear.

/sulk

/pout

/snore