Ringo Mandingo

A Letter to My Son, on Why I Hate His Mother Ringo Mandingo

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 shit the bed on this one?"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 as much as I do, or nearly so. 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. When my boy comes of age, I want him to have all the answers to satisfy his curious mind. Herein lay the final and unofficial record of how Mom and Dad's whole relationship went shithouse-over-sideways from day 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. Come on, why don't you? It'll be good for a few chortles, maybe even a guffaw. If you don't vomit with laughter at least once, you can have your money back. That's the Ringo Mandingo guarantee. Not!