Wanna Date My Daughter
When I was in high school I used to be terrified of my
girlfriend's father, who I believe suspected me of wanting
to place my hands on his daughter's chest. He would open
the door and immediately affect a good-naturedly murderous
expression, holding out a handshake that, when gripped, felt
like it could squeeze carbon into diamonds.
Now, years later, it is my turn to be the dad. Remembering
how unfairly persecuted I felt when I would pick up my dates,
I do my best to make my daughter's suitors feel even worse.
My motto: wilt them in the living room and they'll stay
wilted all night.
"So," I'll call out jovially. "I see you have your nose pierced.
Is that because you're stupid, or did you merely want to APPEAR
stupid?"
As a dad, I have some basic rules, which I have carved into
two stone tablets that I have on display in my living room.
Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd
better be delivering a package, because you're sure as
heck not picking anything up.
Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me.
You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything
below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of
my daughter's body, I will remove them.
Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable
for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that
they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take
this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are
complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded
about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come
to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten
sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to
assure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during
the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my
electric staple gun and fasten your trousers securely in
place around your waist.
Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world,
sex mithout utilizing a "barrier method" of some kind can
kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex,
I am the barrier, and I WILL kill you.
Rule Five: In order for us to get to know each other, we
should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the
day. Please do not do this. The only information I require
from you is an indication of when you expect to have my
daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need
from you on this subject is "early."
Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with
many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with
me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once
you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to
date no one but her until she is finished with you.
If you make her cry, I will make YOU cry.
Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting
for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by,
do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the
movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting
on her makeup, a process which can take longer than painting
the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there,
why don't you do something useful, like changing the
oil in my car?
Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for
a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds,
sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places
where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight.
Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing,
holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient
temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear
shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other
than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped
up to her adam's apple. Movies with a strong romantic
or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature
chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay.
My daughter claims it embarrasses her to come downstairs
and find me attempting to get her date to recite these
eight simple rules from memory. I'd be embarrassed too--
there are only eight of them, for crying out loud! And,
for the record, I did NOT suggest to one of these cretins
that I'd have these rules tattooed on his arm if he couldn't
remember them. (I checked into it and the cost is
prohibitive.) I merely told him that I thought writing
the rules on his arm with a ball point might be inadequate
--ink washes off--and that my wood burning set was probably
a better alternative.
One time, when my wife caught me having one of my daughter's
would-be suitors practice pulling into the driveway, get out
of the car, and go up to knock on the front door (he had
violated rule number one, so I figured he needed to run
through the drill a few dozen times) she asked me why I
was being so hard on the boy. "Don't you remember being
that age?" she challenged.
Of course I remember. Why do you think I came up
with the eight simple rules? |
