An Open Letter to the Daughter I Never Had

Men are pigs. Cavity-scratching, couch-deforming, football-watching, boobie-honking, wolf-whistling, navel-picking, alphabet-belching, bean-filled dingleberries-twixt-the-cheeks. With curlicue tails. And we fart a lot. In short, we are swine. And don’t let anyone tell you differently. I know this is true because in the last ten minutes, I’ve done half the things on that list, and thought of doing the other ones.