You Can Date My Daughter Over My Dead (Beat Dad) Body

by Julia Gerhardt

So, David, you think you can just waltz into my old home fifteen years after I waltzed out and start dating my daughter, Isabel?

Nice try, pal. 

While I may have zero knowledge as to what my daughter’s eyes, nose, hair, skin, height and general demeanor look like, I will make sure to protect her at all costs from thoughtless boys like you. 

You must have some nerve showing up here. Sure, my daughter hasn’t heard from me in fifteen years and her mother thought I may have died, but what did you think? That I wouldn’t come back to my former property that I have no legal ownership of in any way to intimidate a boy away from my daughter? The one thing a dad should always do for his little girl, no matter how not little she is anymore now? 

(Seriously though, does anyone know how tall she might be?).

It is my one duty as a male and a parent to make sure no man cares about my daughter in any way, shape, or form, more than I have ever cared about her, no matter how easily it could be done. Should she find happiness with any boy, it is up to me, no matter how long it’s been since I’ve returned home/evaded child support to ensure that this happiness be dashed immediately. 

And now, here you are, at my door that I have been unable to open because I don’t have the keys, wanting to see if my daughter, Amber, is home. The balls on you. 

Do you know who I am? I am the man that heroically held the top part of the missionary position for two whole minutes to conceive this girl you want to take to prom. Two whole minutes, David. That’s like holding a push up for two minutes.  Can you do that, David?  Huh?  Can you?

Well I don’t give a shit about your personal record with a five-minute plank.

Listen here, David. I’m not messing around. Does the fact that you actually showed up at the time you promised to show up for my daughter mean that you’ve already done a better job than me at being nice to her? Yes. But does that matter to me at all? Absolutely not. It is my primal, Darwinian duty—not to have raised, fed, and clothed my daughter, Tiffany—but to ensure that she does not procreate with another human being. 

Let’s just be real here, I know what you next move is. One day, out of nowhere, you’re going to crave a life without my daughter, Daphne, and you’ll buy a one-way ticket to San Diego, meet a lady…       

You’re offering me five bucks to leave now? Did you not just here my whole speech, David?


Have a fun night!

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