Dear Mike Pence: a letter from my two year old daughter.

Hi, I’m Betty. I’m two. (Okay, 21 months, but who’s counting.) I typically stay out of politics. It’s bad for my acid reflux. But you were in the news the other day for something really stupid. I can’t get over it. My mom is always ragging on me to use my words, so here you go.

Mike Pence, let me be clear, I don’t want to have dinner with you. I like to party and you seem totally lame. No offense. Or take offense. I don’t care. You’re kind of a gross person.

Anywho, I overheard my mom saying you won’t eat with a woman alone and you won’t go anywhere that has booze and broads without your wife.

Are you fucking kidding me? Are you so irresistible that a gal can’t share some bruschetta with you without going after your trouser snake? (By the way, I’m sorry snakes live in your pants. That sounds awful.)

Are you such a sex machine that you can’t be responsible for your actions around women? Wait, who does that remind me of…

As my mom and I were screaming about this, my dad, being Devil’s Advocate, said it didn’t have to be about sex. It was an old fashion, stupid way, of showing respect and love for your wife. I told him to shut the hell up and bring me a ba ba. (Yeah, I still drink a bottle. Don’t make this about me.)