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Dear Cutie-Pie (I call you this pet name because I subconsciously know how important your cuteness will eventually be to your future reproductive and marital success),

Recently, your mother and I were searching for an answer on the government spy agency known as Google. Halfway through entering the question, GovGoog returned a list of the most popular searches in the world. Minutes later, my tax return was flagged for auditing. Perched at the top of the search list was “How to keep him interested.”

It amused me. I scanned several of the countless articles about how to be sexy and sexual, when to bring him a beer versus a sandwich, and the ways to make him feel smart and superior.

And I got a knowing look.

Little One, it is, has always been, and always will be your job to “keep him interested.” Just at it will be your future husband’s job to keep you interested. Everyone knows this is true, despite loser mafia protestations to the contrary, and that’s why this search result, the culmination of millions of user search entries, is the first one returned.

Little One, your only task is to know deeply in your soul — in that unshakeable place that isn’t indoctrinated into feminism and resentment and mass media bromides — that you are judged for your worth. (If you can remember that everyone else is judged for their worth also, the battle of your happiness in life will be mostly won. But that is a letter for another day.)

If you can assess your worth in this way, you will be attractive in the most important sense of the word: you will work hard to stay fit and sexy and feminine and attract a boy who is both capable of self-assured masculinity and who wants to spend his one life not secretly despising you for giving up on him and disrespecting his normal, natural desires as a man.

Little One, I want to tell you about the man who doesn’t need to be kept interested, because he knows you’ve given up trying to be interesting:

I don’t care if he puts his elbows on the dinner table — because it’s worse when he puts his eyes on the way your nose scrunches like a walrus sniffing rotten fish in the air when you smile, and starts to hate you. And then can’t stop hating you.

I don’t care if he can’t play a bit of golf with me — because his short game suffers when he’s pissed off his children are ingrates trained by your passive-aggressive style of parenting to despise him and he’s not quite sure one of them is his. Sadly, his daughter is taking after you lengthwise and widthwise and you’re doing nothing to stop it because GRRLPOWER and PATRIARCHY.

I don’t care if he doesn’t follow his wallet — because the money just goes to buy you bon bons and cheesy poofs.

I don’t care if he is strong — because if he were strong he might trade you in for a woman who’s still interested in maintaining an hourglass figure and a sweet heart.

I couldn’t care less how he votes — because the sitting White House occupant is not the one who has to wake up every morning and see your flabby carcass rolling over to refuel with a strategically placed bowl of chips on the nightstand first thing in the morning.

I don’t care about the color of his skin — because your shelf butt is so stupendously grotesque my objections will only fall on deaf ears when you discover your own men don’t want to paint a canvas of your lives with brushstrokes of patience, and sacrifice, and vulnerability, and tenderness.

I don’t care if he was raised in this religion or that religion or militant Islam – as long as he was raised to value the sacred and to know every moment of life, and every moment of life with you, is deeply sacred assuming you wear the hijab and cover your bloated porcine face.

In the end, Little One, if you stumble across a man like that and he and I have nothing else in common, we will have the most important thing in common:

Your physical and temperamental attractiveness.

Because in the end, Little One, the things you should have to do to “keep him interested” are to be sexually experimental, fall within a 17 to 23 BMI and a 0.65 to 0.75 WHR, and treat him like the king he truly, deeply wants to be for you in your lives together.

Only then will you and he be happy and loving and patient and vulnerable and tender with each other.

Your eternally interested man (no creepy incest),



This post is, of course, dedicated to my daughter, my Cutie-Pie. But I also want to dedicate it beyond her.

I wrote it for my wife, who has courageously held on to her slender figure and has always held me accountable to being that kind of “man” that women love — i.e., a man who doesn’t apologize for his desire.

I wrote it for every grown woman I have met inside and outside of my therapy office — the women who have never known this voice of a Strong Father.

And I wrote it for the generation of boys-becoming-manboobs who need to be reminded of what is really important — my little girl finding a loving, lifelong, alpha male companion who demands the best of her is dependent upon at least one of you figuring this out. I’m praying for you. No, seriously, I’m praying. Don’t let me down. I don’t want little manbooblets jerking off into furry costumes or little cuntlets blowing my savings on useless grad school Gay Studies degrees and bowing out at age 38 with an apartment full of cats and a womb drier than Death Valley (apropos).


This article has been featured on Huffington Post. CH is going mainstream!


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