Sawyer Beckett's Guide for Tools Looking to Date My Daughter Read online

  © S.E. Hall 2016

  ©2016 S.E. Hall

  Cover Design: Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative

  Cover Model: Burton Prescott Hughes

  Photographer: Eric Battershell

  Editor: Misty Lingle

  Proofing by Jill Sava

  Formatter: Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright

  Thank you all!

  All rights reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  “They say from the instant he lays eyes on her, a father adores his daughter. Whoever she grows up to be, she is always to him that little girl in pigtails. She makes him feel like Christmas. In exchange, he makes a secret promise not to see the awkwardness of her teenage years, the mistakes she makes or the secrets she keeps.”

  — Unknown

  Table of Contents

  Rule #1

  Rule #2

  Rule #3

  Rule #4

  Rule #5

  Rule #6

  Rule #7

  In Closing

  About the Author

  It has come to my attention, kinda like being smacked in the face by a fucking 2x4, that my daughter is either suffering from hallucinations, (it’d be frowned upon for me to actually root for that being the case, right?), or thinks she’s old enough to date. And no, we’re not talking about the days of some shaky lil’ boy coming to my door so his parents can drive him and my angel to the chaperoned school dance, both his folks waving from the car with shit-eating grins on their yuppie faces, ‘cause they know the same thing I do — they have a son, ONE penis to worry about, but I have a daughter, EVERY penis to worry about… and how to cut it off without getting caught. Nooooo, Miss Priss, despite my best efforts, went and figured out how to grow up. She’s now not only living on her own, but has somehow translated her age and the fact she has an apartment into some imaginary, golden ticket to freedom that allows her to go out whenever she wants, to who the hell knows where and do who the hell knows what, with friends (many of which are male) that I didn’t even know existed!

  It’s a full-time job just keeping what few tabs I do have on her, and now this “oh yeah Dad, I run around and date” bullshit.

  I need more guns.

  I don’t see her at breakfast every morning anymore. I don’t know what outfit she found, mistakenly, appropriate to wear each day. And I definitely no longer have the chance to tuck her into bed every night, hanging on every word of the innocent, little girl babble of what Suzy said to Tommy on the playground that day.

  And now, just another “surprise” discovery that reinforces what I’ve been telling myself isn’t true — I’m still losing her a little more each day.

  Not gonna lie — it hurts like a motherfucker.

  Last time I checked though, she’s not thirty yet, nor am I dead, and I’m pretty fuckin’ positive those were the strict stipulations to her ever dating, that I’ve recited at least once a day, every day, since… well, since she was old enough to understand what I was saying. So I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight.

  But some people, (everyone in The Crew, all of whom I’m this close to throwing overboard), say I’m being ridiculous and fooling myself by thinking I have any say-so left in the matter. I’ve always been the best looking and smartest one in the group, so I’m not sure why I’m even listening to them. Oh that’s right, because they won’t shut the hell up! So in the interest of their silence, and of course compromise, because it’s another well-known fact that I’m a reasonable, level-headed guy — I’m going to give all you horny, piss-ant lil’ fuckers sniffing around my daughter a fighting chance.

  A very slim chance.

  (And it’s really for one reason only… I don’t want Princess P to get mad and give me that “controlling tyrant” speech of hers again. Plus, she tells me a lot more when she’s not not talking to me.)

  Don’t get too excited yet you bastards. I’m not having your ass over for dinner to “get to know ya” or anything else just as asinine. No, the only scrap of assistance you’re gonna get is this manual. Way I figure, at least twenty percent of you “dead punks walking” can’t read. Another fifty percent of you will get scared and disappear out of the picture. Which leaves thirty, just thirty percent of you lil’ bastards, at best, that might make it to the final cut.

  I’m likin’ my odds.

  And, I’ll be able to smile, guilt-free, when I tell my baby girl that I tried.

  So, let’s get this party started.

  The most important thing for you to know is this: your first “date” will be with me. If and when you’ve read this entire survival guide, yes, emphasis on survival — your own — you still insist on pursuing my daughter, you and I will have ourselves a “sit down.”

  Be sure and bring a notebook and number two pencil with you to this meeting, because it’s not gonna be some friendly chat over a burger and a few beers. You, naïve glutton for punishment that you are, will be quizzed over all the guidelines I’m about to school you on… under bright lights, and allowed nothing to drink for that nervous, cottonmouth thing ya got goin’ on, which works out perfectly with the fact you’ll also be denied any bathroom breaks until we’re done. Unless of course you piss down your leg, which you very well may.

  Anything less than a 100% on said quiz will be considered a FAIL, and you will be escorted from my property immediately, in a manner of my choosing. And before you ask, fuck no there aren’t any re-tests or opportunities for extra credit, and no way in hell do I grade on a curve.

  Ya know what? You should probably just stop reading right now and go find some other girl with a dumbass dad you might stand a chance against. I won’t think any less of you, I’m not the judgmental type. Actually, this very wise decision would tell me you at least have somewhat of a brain… the one in the head on top of your neck, and you’re finally using it.

  Atta’ boy!

  But, should you decide to proceed… let the games begin!

  Surprise, surprise — once again, Daney, “Mr. McWorryLikeAPuss” has insisted I include a “cover my ass” clause. Some shit about guys who have, or are currently, (I’d say you’re as good as dead if either’s the case, but apparently that defeats the purpose of the upcoming disclaimer), dating my daughter could possibly whine like a titbag that I’m issuing threats against them.

  I AM!

  Can’t say that either.

  So here ya go. I’ll give you three guesses who wrote this part… and the first two don’t count.

  DISCLAIMER: This handbook is for entertainment purposes only, directed at no actual person(s). It’s simply one father’s thoughts and opinions when it comes to his daughter dating. No young men were harmed, physically or otherwise, held against their will and/or interrogated during the making of this fictional work, nor is it suggested or encouraged in any way that any fathers who happen to read this try anything contained herein at home.

  Or anywhere.

  On anyone.

  There, now Daney can calm his tits and I can get on with it — the regulations to know like the back of your hand if you’re even thinking about thinking about dating my daughter.

  And again, any of you dads out there who do buy up a bunch of copies and start handing ‘em out to your own daughters’ potential boyfriends, just remember… I put in a disclaimer. So make sure you tell your daughters and/or wives not to come bitchin’ at me for bail money.

  And to the young men reading — I assure you, when it
comes to a little girl’s daddy, no matter how old she may be, it’s a helluva lot easier to work with us than against us.

  Especially if that daddy is me.

  Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, toolbag.

  You no longer have any.

  We’re starting here because if you’re lookin’ to date my girl, then I’m lookin’ for each and every skeleton in any closet you’ve ever hung a shirt in, boy. And you better not be hidin’ any doozies. If you are, no need to read beyond this point. I will find out, every speck of dirt there is to know about you. You see, I’ve got this certain friend, who even scares the shit out of me with the Intel he has — man already knows or can find out anything, about anyone, in a matter of time so quick that it reeks of mafia ties he’s failed to mention. The terms “sealed record” or “expunged” have no meaning in his world, so keep that in mind.

  And of course I’ll be talking to your buddies… especially when I can catch ‘em out drinking. That’s when they’ll be loose-lipped and tell me everything I want to know. And, I’ll see their true colors. Who you run with says a lot about you — you hang with stray dogs, you have fleas.

  But as I’ve mentioned, I’m a rational man, so I’m not gonna purposely dig up every time you acted like the jackass you are and tell my daughter. (Although, how much fuckin’ fun would that be?) But honestly, I don’t care about that time you thought it was just a fart and some shit came out or when you couldn’t handle all the wine coolers your friends made you drink and when you passed out first, they drew a dick on your face.

  Those aren’t “secrets.” They’re just proof you’re a dumbass, which I already knew.

  No, I’m hunting for the things in your past that fall into two categories: “Oh, Hell No” and “I’ll Give You 30 Seconds to Explain.”

  Yes, I’ll define them for you. Jesus, you need me to shit and piss for ya too?

  The “Hellllllllll NOs” are the following, and/or anything close:

  *Any jail time.

  *Your fingerprints on file in any system other than for application into the military.

  *Ever being brought in by the police for questioning on ANY matter.

  *Ever being asked to participate in a line-up. (Even if they didn’t pick your ass; if you were in the line, you’re done here.)

  *Any kids you’re hiding and/or not taking the utmost care of. (Nope, I don’t care if DNA was done or not; I find one woman who says it’s yours, it’s yours. And if you didn’t introduce your child, proudly, to my daughter or at least tell her right off the bat — you’re out. AND, if you’re not providing for that child, go start doing so NOW, you worthless piece of shit.)

  *Any ex-wives. (Save your “annulment” or “drunk in Vegas” speeches. It counts.)

  *Any complaints ever filed against you by a female. (If I find one, I’m gonna beat your ass to teach you a lesson. And because I can.)

  I reserve the right to add to this list at any time, without prior notice, or even a reason. Because I can.

  If you qualified for any above item — get the fuck gone. Fast. Like you’re being chased by a large, angry father. Because you are.

  If, by some miracle, you made it through these cuts, feel free to keep reading. But pay careful attention… you’re not out of the woods yet by any means.

  So you made it this far, which only tells me you’re not a hardened criminal; your parents must be so proud. But anything else “sketchy” in your history — you need to fess up to me before I find out on my own. Little things, that may seem insignificant to you, aren’t. They’re a big deal to me, and they grow even bigger every second you try to hide them. These, what I’ll generously refer to as “minor” offenses, are the ones you have 30 seconds to explain.

  *Speeding/parking tickets/any traffic violations in general. These are important and need to be carefully scrutinized by me because I’ll be damned if your irresponsible, reckless ass is gonna be driving my baby girl around, all hopped up on adrenaline and bad decision-making skills. We can work on this one though. (God, I’m such a giver.) I’m willing to donate unselfishly of my time and take you out for my special brand of a driving lesson. I’m lookin’ forward to it really. However, my daughter, the most precious thing in the world to me, is not to go on any rides with you behind the wheel until this happens. And I can’t wait to see what you drive. It better not be some lil’ rice-burner, wind-up toy car where every vehicle on the highway is bigger than you… obviously posing hazards that worry me even more than thinking about you driving.

  And if all else fails, because you’re too far gone and can’t be re-trained and/or drive a Matchbox car, we’ll just establish the rule that my angel, who was taught by the best, will always be the one to drive, her car… while you and your mangina ride passenger. Should this stipulation have to be put in place, I know my P, and she will now think you’re either a pussy, you actually have a pussy, you’re same-sex oriented or will promptly place you in the friend zone. Problem solved!

  *Cheating. Of any sort. And before you get all cocky and think you can easily handle this one, let me tell you what “cheating” means in my dictionary. Anything you wouldn’t do if my daughter, or myself, were watching is cheating. Yeah — shit just got real. I’ll track down every teacher you’re ever had, every test you’ve ever taken and every girl you’ve ever so much as texted. You’re gonna want to delete your Facebook, SnapChat, Instagram and Tinder accounts right about now. And I still may find ‘em.

  If deceit is embedded in your nature, like I find you cheated on lots of tests and/or girls, not just once or twice when you were very young, then we have two options. Electric shock therapy to untangle the wire in your brain that thinks cheating is okay is our first, and my personal, choice.

  Or, you can forget my daughter’s name and get lost. I stand corrected; this one may be my preference.

  *Fighting. Again, gonna find everyone from your fucking pre-school teachers, your camp counselors, to your coaches… no rock (out from under which you crawled) unturned. This particular category can either ruin you or work in your favor. You see, there’s a fine line between being able to kick some ass when you’re hit first or defending a lady and being a hot-head. If I find that you’re the latter, a cocky punk with a short temper — I’m sending ya packin’.

  I reserve the right to add to this list at any time too.

  So secrets… I think you get my drift. If not, you’re too damn dumb to date my daughter anyway. If you are able to keep up so far and think your “rap sheet” will pass inspection, have your confessional list prepared when you arrive to our lil’ pow-wow.

  On a side note, you should also bring your best attempt at a real man’s handshake. While I proceed to shake just short of snapping every tiny, fragile bone that makes up the human hand — yours in this case- you are expected to bear down and take it without so much as a flinch. If you squeeze back, bonus point. But if you wince, whimper, dare to try to pull away or cry — which wouldn’t surprise me a damn bit — your visit is over. Take your sorry, limp-wristed ass home. You’ve been disqualified.

  Not to mention disgraced.

  You just let out a huge sigh of relief, didn’t you? You’re thinking, “it’s not that bad, I can handle this no problem.”

  Ah, that’s precious, Nancy.

  Well now, take a deep breath in and return immediately to the state of ‘scared shitless’ you were in — and will remain in — for the duration of your half-cocked plan to be any part of my daughter’s life. Because this is an ongoing investigation, boy. I’m not just wading through the cobwebs in your closet once. No, no, no… I already have all the apps installed on my phone to continually check your shit, including the county jail intake website, and a standing reservation with an officer, who shall remain nameless, to know, on the daily, if you so much as slow-roll through a stop sign.

  And I’m gonna shake your hand the same way every damn time I see you.

  Be afraid. Stay Afraid.

  Let’s clear up
any misconceptions you might have about this right now. SHE. HAS. ONE.

  I know what you’re thinking. Stop. If I trusted your thinking, I wouldn’t need to write you a manual, now would I?

  The word “curfew” has gotten a raw deal — young people such as yourself have made their own adaptations to its definition. This isn’t the urban dictionary punk, so I looked it up in the old school dictionary for ya.

  Curfew: noun; Middle English word origin. A regulation requiring people to remain indoors between specified hours, typically at night.

  Granted, some of the examples offered do mention the word “parents” — which is fine by me, cause guess what — I’m still her parent, no matter how old she gets. But nowhere, not even in those lil’ unhelpful “let’s use it in a sentence” hints that you foolishly think contain your escape clause, does it specify a starting or ending age for curfew enforcement.

  Therefore, twenty-five or fifty-five… SHE. HAS. ONE.

  You ever heard the saying “nothing good happens after midnight?” Yeah, it’s not “nothing good happens to people under eighteen after midnight.” There’s a reason for that. Drunk drivers and degenerates don’t discriminate based on age. Neither do emergency rooms.

  God did not bless me with my beautiful, amazing child for her to close down the bars or tip the third-shift waitress at IHOP. He, and I, have a far bigger purpose for her life in mind. And if you care about her… so do you.

  Now at first, I was going to set the curfew at one a.m. But then, one of the coolest women I know popped in my head, and I’m not too proud to admit, her “Disney Defense,” which she can find a way to apply to any real-life situation, made sense to me.

  Cinderella had to be home at midnight, and even then, poor girl lost a shoe and had to wobble her way home on one foot, with only some mice, a couple horses and a pretty tired lookin’ dog to protect her.