[ReamusLQ]

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 magood-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 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, midriffT-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 Chainsaw
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 outloud!
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?