Letters to My Son, on Why I Hate His Mother

There comes a day in every young boy's life when he asks, "Hey, where's Dad? Why aren't him and Mom together? Was it something Mom did? Did that numbskull completely poop the bed on this one?"

If you're in the market for obscene, offensive, madcap, hilariously heartbreaking and scatological tales of one man's descent into the hellish world of romance, pregnancy, and parenting with a woman he loves to hate and hates to love, then look no further. Let Ringo Mandingo take your greasy palm and lead you Willy-Wonka-style into a world of pulverized hopes and devastated dreams.This account is a letter to my son, for all sons; written as a father, for all fathers. It is a universal chronicle for the voiceless men out there who hate the mother of their children. The daddies, papas, and padres who feel such blistering rancor and malice toward the women who birthed their little boys that their eyes feel like they're literally about to explode inside their heads, like bratwurst in a malfunctioning microwave.