Dads ten commandments for dating my daughter php abledating

God, in His providence, has seen fit to bestow upon my wife and me two beautiful girls that we must steward into greatness.It has been a blast watching my daughters develop into righteous and rowdy, gorgeous girls.The thing that sucks with their metamorphosis into womanhood is the guys who’ve begun to buzz around our happy nest interested in my ladies.As much as I don’t like the idea of their dating, I have got to suck it up and accept it (bartender, I’ll have a shot of whiskey). you know how hard it is to let your girls go (I’ll take another shot, please). Thou shall understand that your presence doesn’t make me happy.

If you’re a slacking, blame-shifting, visionless slug with genital warts who’s waiting for someone to carry them into greatness and who lives by the dictates of his ding dong, then you need to find a girl who doesn’t have a father like me. Thou shall not touch my daughter, or I’ll tear your hands off and you’ll have to “whip the bishop” with a stub.

Not only am I not cool with your being around me, I’m sure as heck not down with your touching my daughter.

Therefore, when you’re in my space (and in my absence) you’d better treat my daughters with the utmost respect. Do not even think about approaching me with liberal, hippy, agnostic, atheistic, anti-American or tree humping bull crap. If you say you’re going to do something, then I expect you to do it. Do not come into my house with earrings, a grill, or over sized pants with your butt cleavage hanging out. If I have to talk to you, you had better know as much about as many things as possible. I’m looking for a sacrificial dude who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty in helping around the house, in our community, in our nation and with our wonderful world.

Do not under any circumstance hang all over my daughter, fondle my daughter or soul kiss my kid until you have a wedding ring on her finger, a joint checking account and MMA at Wachovia—or I will shove your Justin Timberlake backside off my 3rd floor balcony first chance I get, capisce? Thou shall look me in the eye, shake my hand like a man and turn off your cell phone. I’ve traveled the planet, planted churches and started businesses. Also, don’t gush around me nor attempt to read me an entry from your journal. I was raised by country-loving, God-fearing, hard-working, meat-eating, good ole’ Texan parents, and I have zero tolerance for what your long-toothed, rather mannish lesbian sociology teacher at Columbia U programmed you with—you dig? Thou shall know that I like cool and expensive gifts and you shall provide unto me this bounty, if you’re smart. Yes, you’d be shrewd to approach me like the three wise men did baby Jesus, namely with gold, frankincense and myrrh. I might, might, ask you to join me for a nice cigar session with me and the boys if thou comest bearing such offerings. Thou shall understand that if you’re dumb enough to tell me a dirty joke, I’m comfortable enough with kicking your butt. You see, I’m looking for stability/reliability for my ladies, and keeping your word in the smallest matters tells me that you’re ahead of the pack and at least a consideration, in my mind, for our support. If you, young man, obey all the words written here, then and only then will you have a chance with my babies.

I don’t care how Snoop Dog acts and what you’ve seen on MTV or in the movies. I want to look you in the eye when I communicate things regarding my girls and their lives. In addition, if and when I extend my hand, grab it like you mean it. You, on the other hand, use Proactiv and drive a Ford Focus; therefore, you will call me “Mr. I’m not Oprah or one of your metrosexual buddies that you can share all of your inner fears and deepest needs with. For example; I like high quality cigars (nothing below a 90), Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Chimay Grand Reserve, books on hunting Africa and old British double rifles. I’m not one of your thug buddies you can go down the gutter with.

If you come into my house mumbling, with your shades on and texting the entire time you’re around me, you’re probably going to be spending the next couple of days in ICU. Where I come from, a limp hand shake = limp life, Twinkle Toes. Thou shall understand that you are a boy talking to a man. I also like original art work, R&B and classic rock compilations, collecting skulls, hunting and big game fishing trips, antique Christian and Classic books, custom choppers and early twentieth century African safari memorabilia.

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