I'm not sure why I asked to review Defending the Caveman, Rob Becker's hacky, indestructible mid-'90s comedy of genders. Was it my perverse obsession with the world's worst jokes? Simple curiosity about why this play, of all plays, refuses to die? Whatever the reason, I knew I would hate it. I couldn't wait to hate it. Hating is my specialty, and hating Defending the Caveman would be my masterpiece.

Caveman, which finishes its 1,000-year run at ACT next week, is based on the premise that men and women are—you might want to sit down—not the same. For example, women have vaginas, while men have jobs. Also, women are too busy not knowing how to program the VCR to remember to shut the fuck up once in a while.

I arrived early and alone. Clutching a glass of Riesling in one hand and a three-dollar chocolate bar in the other, a bitter, overdressed single gal in a room full of couples, I was proving this stupid play right before it even began. Caveman Isaac Lamb took the stage, big, jovial, slightly disheveled—a dude's dude—and our education began. He explained that men are hunters and women are gatherers. (Hunting means not listening to your wife while the game is on. Gathering means shopping.) He told us that "it's hard to argue with a woman because women are not hindered by logic," but tempered it with, "caveman actually worshipped women." Well, shucks. I can't stay mad at you, caveman!

The audience lost their shit. They howled and clapped, they shook each other and squealed, "That's SO true!" The caveman spoke exactly, uncannily, to their relationships. They barely remembered to applaud—Lamb was incidental; this play was about them. I sat there, as planned, like an asshole. I was precisely the uptight, catty, unenlightened bitch that the caveman was talking about, that the women in the audience were so proud not to be. I hated them all for it. I finished my wine.

I have met men who enjoy chatting. Were they actually women? Yesterday I drank milk straight from the carton and left my wet towel on the bed. Am I not a lady? Plus, remember gays? We'll get no answers from our caveman—he's leaving, taking his self-fulfilling prophecy on the road. And I'll be here, a woman without a category, alone with my shoe collection, my period, my questions, and my hate.