Opinion: If You Want to Fuck My Daughter, You’re Gonna Have to Fuck Me First

Think you’re gonna take my daughter out for a date? I know where your mind’s at, son. In the gutter, just like mine was at your age. All men are alike, from priests to paramedics, I know it. 

Mister, if you want to have a roll in the hay with my daughter, you’re gonna have to take me to bed first. And I mean the whole enchilada. I’m talking first base, second base, third base, mutual sloppy home run, and back to first base again. I like to be kissed after makin’ whoopie. 

You’re gonna take me to dinner first. Somewhere fancy, like California Pizza Kitchen. After we eat, you’re gonna take me back to your domicile for a nice glass of chablis. This is really just a ruse to see where you live. What kind of man you are, what kind of sack you have. Maybe this is to sneak a peek at the ID in your wallet or go through your medicine cabinet, send your info to some cop drinking buddies to see what they can find on you. 

Then you throw some Luke Combs on (vinyl, of course). 

You laugh, tussle your hair back. Those dimples. 

And then, mister, we begin to get down to business. 

It’s a quarter past fucking o’clock and you’re my Huckleberry. 

You wanna give it to her? You gotta give it to me. You wanna treat her right? You gotta treat me right. 

You better make me gush my guts, sailor. I want you wet and horned up with a mean sharp hog, ready to pump rejected future grandchildren into my tight little brown reacharound downtown. Maximum capacity? You and the horse you rode in on. 

I’ll put it like this in terms of expectations: we should need to lay down towels first, and still need to wash the bedsheets after. You understand me, hotcakes? You asked my daughter for a date. This is what you want, and this is what you get. You don’t know it, but this is actually an efficient way to check you for diseases, ticks, and any unsavory deformities. I don’t like hairy men, so that’s out. I’m the hairy king in this castle. 

Once you’ve fucked me 9 ways to Sunday, I’m gonna rifle through your clothes while you shower, maybe smell your underwear just to make sure you’re not a little weirdo. Then, I want you to make me breakfast. This is the final test, but like the garnish atop poached eggs, perhaps the most important detail. I want to see if you’ll appreciate me. Cuddle me. Peck at my neck. Kiss as I leave and tell me that we had fun, to have a good day, that you’ll call me again soon. Or text, whatever is easiest, no biggie. It’s not like I’m obsessed with you or anything. This is just what a good father does. 

Young man, if you can do all that, then you may take my daughter on a date. We have high standards of pedigree in this family, and we are all American stock. At the very least, a handjob in the backseat of my Cybertruck would do. 

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