Friday night I was hit with a short bout of the Peruvian death flu. I had aches in all of my joints, felt chilled, and was too weak to play with Eli. “Carry me, daddy,” Eli would say, and there was nothing I could do.
At one point I was lying on the couch and groaning feebly.
Me: I think I have a fever.
Misty: The only thermometer we have in the house is the baby thermometer.
Me: Well, stick it up my ass and call me Junior.
At which point I realized what I had said and turned to stare at Eli, who was looking delighted. He walked over to the couch.
Eli: I needa S!
Just as M&Ms are M’s for the letter stamped on them, Skittles are S’es. I’ve never been saved by a homophone before.