This one doesn't even need commentary. In my opinion, I Wish Daddy Didn't Drink So Much is the magnum opus of Judith Vigna, the Joyce Carol Oates of deeply-traumatized child/ dysfunctional-family literature, and the author of (I'm not shitting you): My Big Sister Takes Drugs, My Two Uncles, Mommy and Me By Ourselves Again, She's Not My Real Mother, and Nobody Wants a Nuclear War. I Wish Daddy Didn't Drink So Much is the heartwarming tale of a young girl given a sled by a VERY merry Santa, and how her daddy won't enjoy it with her until he can get to the store to pick up another 12-pack of Steel Reserve. He has to walk, though, because mommy hid his car keys.

I get that books like these are written to supposedly ease the pain of kids already going through this kind of nightmare ("You're not alone!"). But do these kids really want to read books about some other kid's surly drunk father? Wouldn't it be better if those kids just read books about happy unicorns carrying princesses away from evil trolls on their way to gumdrop castles? What's next, Judith Vigna, I Wish Daddy Would Stop Visiting Me at Night or Who Are All these Men Sleeping With Mommy?