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

  So even midnight is iffy, but I figure if it worked out for one princess, I’m willing to allow it for my princess.

  Midnight it is, boy. I’d explain to you where the little and big hand are pointing at that time, but since we both know you’re gonna check your phone — that’s a digital reading of “12:00 AM.”

  Not “ish.” There’s no fucking “ish” in this rule. Not 12:01, none of that “well, we left the place at twelve” bullshit you’re already planning to spew at me. What I’m saying to you is — my daughter is to be inside her apartment at midnight, with the door locked and your ass on the other side of it. You are to walk her to the door, make sure she gets inside safely, but you don’t step one toe over the threshold.

  Has this put a dent in your plans? Not sounding like as much fun to date a girl you must have home this early? You’re absolutely right! (Savor that, it’s not something I’m likely to ever say again.) I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you wanted to call this whole thing off right now.

  Oh, and one last thing. Being the kind and generous person I am, which we’ve clearly established multiple times already, I’m gonna let you have all the credit on this one. Meaning — this was your idea when my daughter asks, most likely in a whiney “you’re no fun” voice, why you’re taking her home so early.

  Deal with it, like a man… and keep my name out your mouth.

  You throw me under the bus and I’ll throw you six feet under.

  If you’ve made it this far and are still confident that you have a snowball’s chance in my form of Hell, then either you’re wrong (that’s where I’m putting my money) or you’re employable.

  So you best be employed.

  Being “employed” doesn’t mean you work a few hours here and there on the weekends for one of your “bros” and/or family members. Selling your old shit on Ebay, Craigslist or to your local pawn shop when you need cash — also not a job. And it damn sure doesn’t mean you grow pot in your closet and “distribute” it, and/or sell off your prescription medications that you “don’t think you need anymore.”

  In fact, if you do have any prescriptions, bring those with you to our meeting too. And yes, now that I’ve thought of it, I’ll be checking on the history of this too. No, HIPPA can’t save you; remember the scary, possibly mob-tied friend I mentioned? Yep, he’ll get me the info. (Please refer back in your handbook to the section titled “Secrets” and my right to add to that list at any time. I just did.)

  “Employed” needs to look something like this:

  A forty hour a week job that requires you to report to a well-established company that has a public building, with a sign and everything, from which you receive a steady paycheck, AND the establishment is recognized as existent by the Better Business Bureau.

  If you are a full-time student — and honestly, if I have to tell you that this doesn’t mean one online course, you’re fucking hopeless — I am willing to keep an open-mind to amending the above requirements, when you present to me your current class schedule. (Which I’ll have already obtained myself, so they better match!)

  But even if we get all this worked out, I’ll still expect to see proof that you have money in your wallet, by means that do NOT include:

  *Given to you by your parents. My daughter works and goes to school, you can too. Figure it out! (No silver-spoon, privileged tit boys that couldn’t fix my princess’s flat tire allowed.)

  *Anything illegal. Don’t think I was kidding before about your prescriptions or precious pot plants. Searching your closets was literal and figurative.

  *Any activity where the words stripper, pimp or “I don’t know his real name” come up. I own a club, so I’m okay with you bartending, bouncing or being a DJ, but not at a strip club where pimps and dealers run their businesses from the back room. And if there’s a certain hallway where every door has a light above it, able to switch from “occupied red” to “open for use green,” get the fuck out of here. But if you do, in fact, work at a club that you think is good enough to pass inspection, go ahead and plan on giving me a tour. I’ll surprise you for that — a “pop in” — it’ll be fun. As if I’d let you “offer” to take me in the middle of the day when nothing’s happening and everyone’s been warned I’m coming. Nice try.

  Right about now you’re probably wondering what prescriptions I’m on, or should be on, since I’m coming off like an overprotective lunatic.

  Thing is- I AM an overprotective lunatic, and I don’t give a damn who knows it. I kick ass at every job I have, and my number one job is being P’s dad.

  I figured out a long time ago, I never have to count the dollars if I count every cent. Yes, I realize I just lost you. What I mean is, if I lay out every single thing, big or small, for you now, I don’t have to worry about being blindsided by some huge issue down the road.

  Dear God, still confused, fucktard? How’s this… if I watch every penny, I never wake up one day to find I don’t even have a dollar. Hear me now?

  Then hear this too — my daughter doesn’t do “dutch,” nor is she ever going to be asked to “spot you a twenty.” Never will she be sitting at home, waiting for you to get off “work” where you stared at other naked women on a pole all night. And she’ll never have to worry about what happens if your Daddy cuts you off, or God forbid, “tragedy strikes,” and your marijuana plants die.

  Because I’ve already safe-guarded her against any of those possibilities. I counted the cents.

  Still think you’re good enough? That you can handle it?

  Well then by all means, turn the page schmuck.

  Of course you'll be taking her out; to dinner, movies that she wants to see, and I'm sure, as much as I hate it, the occasional club or party… because I know she loves to dance. Tried everything, couldn’t change her mind on that worrisome habit. I’m willing to try and accept this though, because as we've established, your ass better not be broke, bumming your way through a cheap date of movies and take-out on her couch. “Netflix and Chill” is not an option! You won't even know what her couch looks like you sorry lil’ — never mind, we'll get to that.

  So back to Rule Four: Going out in public.

  Obviously, you've seen my daughter, or you wouldn't be sniffin’ around with your tail waggin'. Well guess what? Everyone else can see her too. Welcome to my world, I've been ready to kill every guy in every place we've gone to since she was thirteen years old.

  Never let your guard down. I don’t care if you’re at church, you need to start practicing your new way of thinking in every situation, even the “safe” ones… that way having your guard up and eyes wide open will become a habit. Everyone is a predator, just waiting for that moment you leave her alone, turn your head, or get drunk and sloppy.

  Do you have a little sister? I hope so; ‘cause I want you to think about each and every worry you'd have if she went, to say… a frat party. Now, use all those awful thoughts running through your mind as fuel to guide you anytime my daughter’s safety is in your hands. And while you’re at it — go drag your sister outta the frat party; what the fuck is wrong with you?

  As added reinforcement, I've purchased all seasons of Law and Order: SVU for you on DVD. It’s my wife’s favorite show, and watching it with her over the years has scarred me for life, yes, but in a productive way — it’s taught me all the possible scenarios I’m now schooling you on.

  *Crowds. When it comes to packed places in which there are any other men, could be one, could be one-hundred, ASSUME THE WORST.

  My daughter is a smart girl and Lord knows I've drilled it into her head her entire life that you can never be too careful, but it's not her behavior or decisions I worry about — it's everyone else's. That now, and foremost, includes yours.

  *Drinks. If you didn't make it yourself or watch it being made like a hawk, then deliver it straight to her hand, never taking your eyes off of it 'til the cup was empty — IT IS SPIKED. You know what? You go ahead and take a drink of it first anyway, regardless of all stipul
ations above. Wait ten minutes. If you're not dizzy or dead, you may proceed to hand it to her — eyes still don’t leave the glass! I’d insist we stick to a “you pop the top on sealed bottle or can” rule, but we both know girls always want the colorful, fruity shit that comes in a glass. Can’t make anything easy on me.

  *Bathroom Breaks. Neither of you are ever to take one alone again. If she needs to go, you escort her, swing the door wide open, have her pause before entering to confirm no one is lurking inside and then your ass does not move from right outside that door 'til she reemerges.

  I’m not just “winging” it on my crazy with this one; statistics prove that eight out of ten attackers will nab you right when you walk in or out of the door, so again — swing that fucker open like you’re trying to kill anything on the other side of it.

  Yeah, people will look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Fun fact — through the years, between all the kids in our “Crew,” their various ball games, and their extensive training on this matter, my friends and I have had to deal with many an angry parent because one of our kids knocked their kid out with a flying bathroom door.

  Better safe than sorry.

  Now if you’re the one who has to go — hold it.

  Yes, I'm dead fucking serious.

  You're not “leaving her with the group“ while you go take a leak, and she's damn sure not waiting outside the door in a dark hallway or going in a guy's stanky-ass bathroom with you, random dudes with their junk hanging out in front of her. So like I said — HOLD IT.

  *Separating. Suppose my girl says, “Oh, I see so and so over there, I'm gonna go say hi. I'll be right back.” I'm not even going to tell you the answer on this one. If your head isn’t already shaking in agreement with me while you read this, mentally listing all the reasons this is a terrible idea, you've learned NOTHING and we're DONE.

  You no longer have to concern yourself with learning how to hold your urine, flinging open doors like a lunatic or staying in “Secret Service” form at funerals because YOU FAIL!

  *Dancing. She wants to go out on the floor with her friends? I don't care if you look like you're having a seizure when you attempt to dance, you get your uncoordinated ass out there, right beside her and bounce your fucking shoulders a little or some shit. If you let her get caught up in the mosh pit of “oops” hands and “accidental” body parts bumping — I will kill you.

  By this point, you stand a very good chance of being called “clingy” or “suffocating.” But real men can easily turn that into “protectively attractive.” Not too attractive! I'm not training you on how to get some play, Asshat! I'm simply giving you a warning out of the kindness of my heart… because you're not allowed to blame any of this on me either.

  *Making your way home. Don't be a tight ass, use valet anytime it's available. Thus, eliminating the need for you to go get the car while my child waits, unguarded. And I'm not crazy about the idea of you traipsing across a dark parking lot, even together, either — so use valet.

  If there's no valet service at whatever hole in the wall you've decided it's wise to drag my daughter to, park close to the door, under a light and have your key positioned in your hand to strike and stab with it. (My girl already knows this trick, so maybe you should hand her the key; she’s highly trained in the art of stabby.)

  *When you get home. Let's start with the most vital part of this rule first — YOUR HORNY ASS IS NOT STAYING. Remember when I said you won't even know what her couch looks like? This is what I was talking about. You see her to the door, don’t forget to swing that motherfucker wide open if P doesn’t do it first, make sure she gets inside and a few lights turned on, wait, on the doorstep, for her to check for anyone inside or signs of a break-in. When she comes back and tells you it's all good, turn around, get in your car and go the fuck home. And when you get there, call and check on her.

  I know you're wondering… if I'm this paranoid, how is she even living outside my home in the first place? Who was watching her like a hawk up to now?

  The answer to your first question is… my Princess has a mother. A mother who insisted I “let up” a little, and coincidentally, is the same woman I enjoy having sex with and/or at least have her speaking to me.

  The second answer is… me, you shriveled up nutsack. Me.

  I had the alarm system installed on her place. I call my baby girl multiple times a day and know her routine by heart. I make a habit to know all her friends and everything about them; hell, I helped raise the best of them. So you see, we have a pattern in place that was just starting to give me some comfort… until you came along.

  You're new, unfamiliar and changing things up, so I have to start all over with my recon. You're one huge pain in my ass. That fucking fly that lands in my ice-cold drink right when I sit down and get comfortable.

  I couldn't hate you more if I tried, and we're only on Rule Four.

  Every single day I've been the father of a little girl, God has gotten a chuckle, watching me navigate my way through the ultimate test with which he blessed me. I've passed, with flying colors, with every breath I've taken, since the day she was born.

  Are you man enough to pass my tests?

  I seriously fucking doubt it.

  Don't fucking touch my daughter.

  Personally, I think that pretty much covers it, but again with the dickheads in my Crew… all still running at their sucks about how I'm being unrealistic. May I just point out, that of these buddies of mine:

  One has no kids.

  One has no daughter.

  And the last one — secretly agrees with every word I’m saying but gets his panties bunched up anytime I speak out loud, or in this case, write it down. And, bastard hasn’t had to deal with the burden that is you in real life, because his oldest daughter married a man we all helped raise, the right way, and he’s actually convinced himself that his youngest is only aware of men that exist in her family, her books, or are umping a softball game.

  They have no idea what I’m going through.

  Just sayin'.

  But, in the interest of… yeah, I got nothing… I really just want them to shut the hell up — here's a more detailed description of what's acceptable and what's a death wish for you.

  *Hand Holding. I'm okay with this; how much damage could you possibly do by holding her hand? Now say “thank you,” and don’t abuse the privilege, because this is the only thing your fingers are to be used for and I’m being very generous here. I’m not even close to playin’ with you when I say, I will slice them off, one at a time, if they wander.

  *Kissing. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I'm okay with this too. Slow your roll there, hornball, this only applies to her hand or mouth. No slippin’ over to the neck or ear. As far as you’re concerned, my child has no neck or ears. And if you have Herpes Simplex any damn number or Mono, then don't touch her at all, not even the hand-holding. You're a disease infested vermin and need to be quarantined.

  *Any State of Undress. Just. Fuck. No. I'm not even gonna explain far enough to have to say “naked,” because that's no longer a word in your vocabulary. I'm talking like ten steps back from the aforementioned word you dare not think. There is nothing under her shirt, pants, shorts, tank top, skirt, leggings, jeggings, sweater, or any other article of top layer clothing I might’ve forgotten to mention, that she needs you to “check on” for ANY reason. Nothing.

  She's been dressing and undressing herself for a long ass time, so she's more than capable of managing the perils of snaps, zippers and buttons. She doesn't need your “help” with any of it. Should she somehow find herself “trapped” inside her clothes, she knows how to dial 911, so no need for you to worry.

  And the same goes for you — if you don't know how to dress and undress yourself by now, you're a fucking moron. Get gone before I help ya.

  *Four on the Floor. I'm referring to each of your two feet — try to follow along now — 2 (her feet) + 2 (your feet) = 4. Keep ‘em on the damn floor. What's t
he point of this, you ask? More than happy to tell ya! With all feet on the floor, it's damn near impossible to assume a compromising position. This eliminates any lying on backs, climbing on top of each other or straddling. Even leaning too far over a console, one foot's bound to come up… and you're now in direct violation of Rule 5, Section Four. There are several other scenarios this prohibits, but the mere thought of describing them makes me want to tear off your head and shit down your neck, so — just keep yourself in check.

  *Sex. Do you want to die?

  I think now would be an excellent time for a review, a step back to look at the whole picture in one big bang. (Coincidentally, “bang” is the sound a gun makes… just sayin’.)

  At this point, you're only on Rule 5 and so far, here's what you're facing:

  *You have to come to my house, get past the handshake in which I crush your metacarpals, then sit down across from me and look me in the eye as I lay out for you everything I have, by that point, dug up in your background and dissected like a blood-thirsty forensic scientist.

  And then, you have to explain, in your big boy voice, anything I found and/or have questions about. And let's not forget — dependent on my findings — I may be taking you out for a driving lesson!

  On the off-chance you don't run out crying in your piss-soaked pants by this point, you have to be asking yourself… is the rest really worth it?

  You must have my princess home by midnight, and you don't get to stay. When you take her out, you must act more as a bodyguard than date, dance like an idiot if needed, and spring for valet service, all while holding your urine.

  You might've had to “rehome” your pot plants and find a new job… and you only get to hold her hand or kiss her.

  Think about it — you're now facing a life of being a sober, overworked, paranoid, unlaid asshat, being constantly watched by the father of an only female child, who's never going to like you.

  If you can't fully comprehend what a grim outlook this is, lemme clear it up for you — it’s gonna fucking suck!