Doug Giles: Raising Girls That Pimps and Thugs will Hate

I was channel surfing the other day when I landed on an idiotic Reggaeton music video. It was your emblematic Stooge-a-Palooza reel.

The scene was typical: the “musicians” and their homies were wearing T-shirts that would be too large for Sasquatch, they sported baseball caps pull downed over their ears like some Fat Albert character. In addition, they all had the prerequisite teeth “grill” needed now to be in The Cult of the Absurd.

Along with the above, these hoodlums donned the Dennis Rodman multi-necklace starter kit, cubic zirconium earrings and, of course, tennis bracelets. Y’know, nothing screams, “I’m a bad ass” more than stud earrings and costume jewelry.

With all their bracelets and necklaces in place, the creative geniuses launched into waving their 96-oz. beer bottles in the air like they just don’t care as they rapped/“sang”/spoke their song (?) so fast they made an espresso’d-up Joe Pesci sound like a groggy Slingblade.

The thing that floored me was not the musical gruel these dasypygals peddled, but all the gorgeous girls that were a part of the helix-missing miscreants’ music video.

Yeah, dozens of beautiful teens and twenty-something girls were wearing Victoria Secret boy shorts and tiny tube tops as they writhed on the ground and upon the hoods of cars as these “artists” poured beer on them, slapped their butts and simulated sex acts with somebody’s daughter. Which left me thinking, “Where the heck are these girls’ parents?” In particular, where are their dads?

Father, if your daughter is doing extra work on soft porn music videos, or posting sex pics on mySpace.com, or bearing it all for a Girls Gone Wild DVD, or inflating their chests to ocean buoy size proportions to appeal to the most appalling, pusillanimous pigs on the planet, then you have clearly not done your job as a father.

Hey sperm donor—if you bring a little girl into this world, then it is your job to make certain she’s grounded. That’s right, Pappy . . . you are the principal player in keeping your young woman from being the next Anna Nicole Smith.

I’ve got two daughters. One is about to go to college, and the other just turned 15. When these little female charges popped out of their mommy’s belly several years ago, I felt this thing called “responsibility” hit me like a nun chuck regarding their upbringing.

I didn’t sluff off my role in their lives onto my wife, my church, government schools, day care, a nanny, other relatives, TV, Sesame Street, or “the village” to fill my boots. I, along with my lovely wife, got them here, and dammit, it’s our job—especially my job as Alpha male of the Giles castle—to set them up internally and externally for greatness.

Living in Miami I knew that I would have to pony up and be a major player in their lives if they were going to escape being part of the local teen fart cloud; I would have to instill principles in them in order to keep them from teenage wasteland. In other words, I’m going to have to be a dad in the traditional sense of the word. Isn’t that weird?

Having been pretty successful, heretofore, with the upbringing of my righteous and rowdy girls, here and now I will unveil my secret recipe for raising my zesty señoritas.

Here’s numero uno on my to-do list for raising girls that pimps and thugs will hate:

1. Teach Them How to Fight. With etiquette having flown out the window a solid 20 years ago and our neighborhoods now seeing perverts and pedophiles a plenty, young and old men are now extremely embolden to be groping, brutish and offensive horn dogs.

Since I would never ever want my darlings to be at the mercy of one these palm pilots, I have made certain that my girls know how to severely disable a bad guy and, if need be, kill him. Not even out of their teens, both my daughters are Gracie Jui Jitsu assistant instructors and have extensive training with knives and guns, both in using and removing them from idiots who might have to die in order to learn something. That’s what I call, “Girl Power.”

Don't forget this, a classic:

10 Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure 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 ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to 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 that 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, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat.

Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay.

Hockey games are okay.

Old folks homes are better.

Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy outside of Hanoi. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car-there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine.

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