Rule 1: If you pull into my driveway and honk, you’d better be
delivering a package, because you’re sure not picking anything up.
Rule 2: 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 and hands off my daughter’s
body, I will remove them.
Rule 3: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys
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 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 my door with your underwear showing and
your pants 10 sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in
order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during
the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric
nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.
Rule 4: I’m sure you have been told that in today’s world, sex
without using 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 5: In order to get to know one another we should not talk
about sports, politics and other issues of the day. 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 that subject is “early”.
Rule 6: I have no doubt that you are a popular fellow, with
many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as
long as it is OK 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 7: As you stand in my front hallway waiting for my
daughter to appear, 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 that 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 8: 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,
police, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness,
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 throat.
Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be
avoided; movies that feature chainsaws are OK. Hockey games
are OK. Old folk’s homes are better.
Rule 9: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a pot-bellied,
balding, middle-aged dimwitted has-been, but on issues relating
to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your
universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you
have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing
but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and 5 acres behind the
house. Do not trifle with me.
Rule 10: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to
mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper
coming in over a rice paddy in Hanoi. When my Agent Orange
starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to
clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As
soon as you pull into the driveway, you should exit your car
with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password,
announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter
home safely and early, then return to your car–there is no need
for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is
mine.
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