By Josie Mac
At baseline, he’s perfectly fine. Snacks have been consumed. Television is on. Life is good.
At mild discomfort, he stubs a toe, gets a paper cut, or has to stand up from the couch. He is convinced he briefly saw the gates of heaven open. No babe.. that was the light reflecting off the frying pan I threw across the room so I wouldn’t put myself out of my own misery!
At moderate discomfort, he sneezes too hard, coughs, or feels a mysterious neck twinge. Google is consulted. Symptoms are searched. An obituary outline begins forming.
At severe, critical, code-red levels, there is slight testicle contact, an itchy underwear tag, or jock itch detection. Immediate demands include a priest, morphine, an ice pack, his mother, a Viking funeral, and your hand while he “crosses over.”
Near-death experience is triggered by a mild cold, sore throat, or clogged sinuses. He is convinced no human has ever suffered like this before. Before you know it, the mild cough that last for a couple of days is suddenly cancer. The sore throat is my tonsils need to be extracted before my airway is completely closed off and I can’t EAT! And the sinuses… oh the pressure.
Actual death occurs when someone calmly asks him to take accountability for something.
Flatline.
Meanwhile, women exist somewhere between zero and four thinking, “Whatever, I’ll get it done.” At level five? “Oh… I might mention this to my doctor next year. If I remember.”
Men With Periods — The Apocalypse Edition
Day one begins with the cramp. A man feels his first menstrual cramp and immediately panics. “What in the hell was that?! Was I shot?! Did my appendix just exit my body?!”
You explain calmly that it’s a cramp, knowing… this is just the beginning. Wait till the volcano EXPLOSION OF HELL!
“A WHAT?! Call 911. No—call everyone. I need my mom! I think I’m dying.”
Twenty minutes later, the mood swing hits.
“I don’t know why I’m crying. I saw a puppy. It smiled at me.”
You nod. “Hormones.”
“HORMONES?! This is possession.”
Then comes the bleeding. He emerges from the bathroom pale. “There’s blood. I’m hemorrhaging.”
You shrug. “It happens every month.”
“EVERY WHAT?! How are women not extinct?!”
He stares at pads and tampons like blueprints for a time machine, stacks seven pads “just to be safe,” and declares a light day while canceling all plans upon standing.
If men had periods, period leave would be federal law. Paid. With snacks, heating pads, and emotional support counselors. And they’d brag about it like a near-death achievement.
Final truth: They can’t handle a sniffle. Give them cramps, bleeding, hormones, back pain, headaches, emotional instability, and society would collapse in eleven minutes.
Still buffering.
Try again later.