Copyright 1998 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/
============= Please do not remove the copyright from this essay <==========
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 without
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 lacking parents, policemen, or nuns. 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 chin.
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?
(write the author at bruce@wbrucecameron.com)
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