I handed an ibuprofen to my charming, beautiful, intelligent, saint of a wife who less than a week earlier had squozen my son from her Woomba® and asked her what I, a mere male mortal, might procure for her in order to slake her thirst and wash down the only comfort afforded her.
“Oh, just a Vitamin Water®. I think there’s a half-drunk one in the fridge.”
I immediately thought up my witty hand-off remark and prepared it as I grabbed the beverage from the fridge and carried it over to the chair in which my glorious, perfect wife was sitting.
“Well, this one was stumbling around a bit and yelling at cops.”
“That’s awesome. But is that really half-drunk?”
“Yeah, I guess not. That’s all the way drunk.”
“This one was talking to girls who were totally out of his league.”
Me too, lady. You’ve always been out of my league.