RULE ONE: If you pull into my driveway and honk, you better be delivering a package because you’re sure not picking anything up.
RULE TWO: Do not touch my daughter in my presence. You may glare at her adoringly, so long as you do not peer at anything below the neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off my daughter I will remove them.
RULE THREE: 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 of your hips. Please don’t take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are idiots. If you show up at my home with your pants falling down I will be forced to ensure that they do not come off during the course of your date with my daughter by taking my electric staple gun and fastening the pants directly to your waist.
RULE FOUR: I’m sure you’ve been told that sex in today’s world without a “barrier device” can kill you. Let me elaborate: I am the barrier,
and I will kill you.
RULE FIVE: Current thinking is that in order for you and me to get to know each other, we should talk politics, sports, and other issues. Do not do this. Your ignorance and stupidity will only serve to anger me. The only information I require of you is when you will have my daughter home. To this end, you only need two words: “early” and “sir”.
Matt Patrick (above). Photo by Rachel Estrada.
RULE SIX: I have no doubt that you are a popular fellow, with opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it’s okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you’ve 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 harder.
RULE SEVEN: As you stand in my hallway waiting for my daughter to appear, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time you should not be dating my daughter. She is doing her hair, putting on make-up, or whatever; a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, do something useful, like change the oil in my car.
RULE EIGHT: The following places are not appropriate places to take my daughter: places with beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool – places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight – places that are dark or poorly lit – places where there is dancing, holding hands, or excessive happiness – places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat – movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme. Hockey games are okay, old folks homes are better, a convent is best.
RULE NINE: Do not ever lie to me. I may appear to be a middle-aged, dim-witted has-been, but on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing 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 five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.
RULE TEN: 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 over a rice paddy. When my PTSD starts kicking in, 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 driveway, you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Note the camouflaged face in the window is mine. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car.