Madison found the T-shirt in Target, which twisted up a familiar put-down and tossed it back in boys’ faces.
“Yeah, I kick like a girl,” it admitted. “Jealous?” You ought to be, boys. I get it. A man will call his boy “son,” name him after himself, or even pass on a II, III or IV. He’s your heir. He’s your pee-in-the-snow partner. He’s your buckaroo; a chip off the old block, even.
He might also become mama’s boy, a lover-not-a-fighter, or, heaven forbid, a Thomas the Tank Engine fan. A man will call his girl many things, but likely, the family name will get wiped out.