Men had a decent run on this planet. We can go sullen face into the abyss of feminist asexual reproduction and guys from spin class who order beer with hints of fruit or we can face the end of masculinity with a stiff upper lip, a purpose-filled boner, and some understanding of how the fuck we got stamped for extermination in the first place. I can’t remember which option involves less work. Maybe we’ll just do the sullen face thing.

The Last Men on Earth isn’t an exaggeration. Search your newsstands, magazine racks, and online hotspots. There’s a war on scrotums and the scrotes are losing. Badly. No, you don’t get a last cigarette. Those were targeted for elimination before the men. You can’t fight what you don’t believe exists. Death is coming in the form of one politically correct Grim Reaper.

Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted to have something I could call my own. Not the pants my dad poached from drunk midgets in parking structures or the bicycle with one wheel he told me would take me on grand imaginary adventures. Something special. On Last Men on Earth, we say what we want, even if that means being pushed to the front of the extruder line.

See you on the other side. Ask Hank for the fresh doughnuts. He’ll know whether or not you earned them.