Child Rearin' no image

Published on June 5th, 2014 | by Richard Black

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How My Daughter Married a Dog and Thoughts on Dating

Yesterday my daughter married a dog.

It was a stuffed animal but a dog nonetheless. Her name is Lollyfosa, the dog that is not my daughter, a name I assume to be female which makes me the proud parent of a lesbian toddler with an affinity for bestiality.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The ceremony took place in Darcy’s bedroom and I hear that it was lovely. In a rare moment of parental concern I realized that my daughter and her playdate had been suspiciously quiet for a good fifteen minutes and decided to investigate. Frankly there’s nothing good that’s happening when the dialogue between two young girls stop but I was pleasantly surprised to find Darcy draped in a large purple blanket, wearing a tiara, and ready to marry a stuffed animal instead of…well let’s just say something else.

I was promptly asked to leave by the officiate and upon confirming that all parties had their clothes on, and let the ceremony continue. I’d always hoped that I’d be able to walk my daughter don the aisle at her first wedding but the key to success in life is all about compromise.

That said I’m not happy about my daughter’s betrothal to a dog. Still the heart wants what the heart wants. I’m really quite a tolerant guy but I draw the line at interspecies marriage and to make matters worse I really hate Lollyfosa.

We have something of a troubled history, Lollyfosa and I. For starters she looks exactly like the sort of thing  Dr. Frankenstein would have stitched together if he were trying to reanimate a dog instead of a human being but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Lollyfosa was a gift to my daughter from my sister and one I’m fairly certain that my sister bought  because she thought it would drive me nuts.

For three months after she came into our house and every single time I walked past Darcy’s room I’d catch the silhouette of Lollyfosa from the corner of my eye and do a doubletake. My heart would skip a beat or two, I’d stand transfixed for a few moments waiting for the inevitable attack and then realize that my blood pressure had spiked to stroke -like levels because of a stuffed animal that looked almost exactly, but not quite, like a real 80 pound dog.

For a time I tried hiding Lollyfosa, in the basement, the dishwasher, occasionally on the patio, or really anywhere out of sight; a move in retrospect that probably lead to my daughter’s fascination with the toy and her subsequent nuptials.

I’ve since become accustomed to Lollyfosa’s presence and generally only wet myself a few times a month when I catch her watchful and knowing gaze out of the corner of my eye, usually after a lengthy shower.

But back to the present (which is called such because it is a gift even though it might not be one that anyone wants).

Upon leaving the ceremony in my daughter’s room in which she was betrothed to a stuffed dog I distinctly remember thinking that Darcy could do better than Lollyfosa. And then realized that, in my eyes, she really never could.

in all reality I’m going to loathe anyone my daughter dates at best. The jocks will be too “steaky”, the band kids too geeky, the nice guys will be too nice, the gang bangers too stabby and the players won’t even have a shot.

I’ve got buddies who plan on greeting their daughter’s potential suitors while cleaning shotguns and AR 15s and that might work but it’s not my style. Instead of brandishing firearms I’ve decided that I will greet each and every one of the boys who want to date my daughter warmly and then, ever so subtly, hit on them.

“Johnny have a seat next to me while Darcy get’s ready,” I’ll pat the cushion on the couch next to me until he sits down.

We’ll spend the next few minutes exchanging pleasantries. I’ll find out that his mother visits her mother in the Poconos every summer while his father trawls for underage tranny’s in some south American shithole . I will feign interest in his GPA or his class in small motor repair or the panel van he’s rehabbed in the knowledge that I will most likely never see him again.

“You work out don’t you John,” I’ll say just a few minutes before Darcy comes downstairs. John will, of course, say that he does in fact work out at which point I will reach out and gently grasp his bicep.

“It’s very firm,” I’ll say much to his discomfort, “Very hard. Very nice. Just remember that Darcy needs to be in bed by midnight John,” I’ll say as the two of them leave, “I however have no curfew this evening and look forward to seeing you later.”


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