I graduated from high school in 1997. And looking back on it, I think that was the year American society reached its peak. During the twenty-one years that have passed since then, there have been a number of corrosive developments in our society—seat belts, runner-up trophies, concussion protocol, soy, targeting penalties, FDA regulations for raw meat, veganism, and school crossing guards are just a handful of examples. I’ll address all of these problems in due time.

Today, however, I want to address “gender reveal” parties. For those of you lucky enough to have avoided these horrific events, a gender reveal party is where the parents-to-be “reveal” whether their child is a boy or a girl. That’s literally it. They gather a bunch of friends and family together, feed them bad food and bad alcohol (good luck finding a handle of Fireball or steak nachos at a gender reveal party), and come up with some dumbass way to “reveal” the gender, such as cutting a cake that has blue or pink layering or releasing blue or pink balloons. Even worse, gender reveal parties are frequently scheduled on Saturdays and conflict with sporting events. And I can guarantee you there will be some do-gooding disphit present who will tell you to “please pay attention” when you watch football games or a Game of Thrones episode on your phone with the volume turned up.

Back in ’97, the mere notion of a gender reveal party would have been met with a swift punch to the stomach. Sadly, we are today expected to applaud the parents and bring presents. So what should we do to solve this problem?

I believe Abraham Lincoln once said, “Others look at things as they are and say, why? I look at things as they should be and say, why not?” Well, I’m happy to tell you that I took this motto to heart and figured out a way to end gender reveal parties for good.

It all started on Monday, when one of my co-workers named Gregg invited me to a gender reveal party that he and his wife are hosting this Saturday at the same time as the Georgia-Kentucky game. I laughed in Gregg’s face, declined the invitation, and called him a loser. But I’m also a philanthropist, and my mind naturally started to wander to the many poor souls who would still be subjected to this event. What could I do to help them and make the word a better place? There was only one answer—figure out a way to ruin the “reveal” in advance of the party.

It really wasn’t that hard to do. I casually asked Gregg which doctor they were using. When I got that information, I called the doctor’s office, pretended to be Gregg (that part was hard because he talks like a loser and lettered in debate in high school), and said I was calling just to “re-confirm” the gender in advance of a party I was hosting. The doctor’s assistant pulled some papers and confirmed it was a girl.

Step two involved me fake apologizing to Gregg, telling him I was coming after all, and asking for the invite list so I could “coordinate presents” with other invitees. He eagerly shared it with me. Little did he know that I was going to use the invite list to send around a group email with the subject “IT’S A GIRL!” The body of the email said simply: “No need to attend Heidi and Gregg’s stupid gender reveal party now. Enjoy your football-filled Saturday. Go Dawgs! – Coach Letterman.”

Things got a little ugly at work this morning. Turns out Heidi didn’t take things so well and showed up in a blind rage, accused me of “ruining everything,” and attempted to attack me while security held her back and escorted her from the premises.

I received a standing ovation from my colleagues.