About a dozen years ago, smack-dab in the middle of the Bush II administration’s misadventure in Iraq, a friend despairingly said to me, “I feel like everything I’m being told is a lie.” I shared her despair, which has, of course, returned—on steroids—during this year’s fraught, overwrought presidential campaign. I’m agitated hourly (no, make that every waking minute) by the thought that a shameless liar of Donald Trump’s magnitude might conceivably be elected to the world’s most powerful post, but, frankly, I’m also irritated by Hillary Clinton’s unbecoming lapses from the truth and her incurable (it appears) penchant for secrecy.

Everybody knows women are weak, shallow, hormonally charged maniacs (womaniacs?) emotionally unsuited to be leader of the free world. They cry, they make rash decisions, they’re irrational, they take too long in the bathroom, no other world leaders could possibly respect them, and they will discriminate against men. Furthermore, as several tiny kids interviewed by late-night host Jimmy Kimmel allege, they’re too girlie, they’re scaredy-cats, and they’ll probably paint the White House pink.