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No, this isn't just another chance to post a Youtube video. It's a cry for you, loving, liquorice-flavored lass of ours. It's you who, when we're addled with a mysterious flu-like illness that's been dogging us for most of the day, comes to us with a velvet-covered sledgehammer of inky green mercy. It's a plea for you, who comes to us like Rey Malualalalalaauga hammering Juice Williams unblocked up the middle, crushing us with an inevitability easily confused with natural law.

Oh, NyQuil. As Dennis Leary said: "Big N, little Y, BIG FUCKIN' Q!" It's to you we run in times of trial, voluntarialy ceding any and all ability to operate heavy machinery. Not since the days of Jeff Bowden, offensive coordinator, has sleep come so decisively or mercifully. Green Fairy of Aisle 12-A, we'll see you tonight when your screwed and chopped grooves boom us to sleep.