I have two daughters who are currently 2 and 4. Right now they are perfect little angels, but at some point in the hopefully-distant future they're going to want to start dating. When that dark day comes, I have just a handful of core rules that I'm going to ask that they adhere to:
1) You know what impresses me most? A job. I don't care if he's waxing asses in an Asian massage parlor, or working as a fart statistician or chicken sexer (all real jobs) as long as he's doing something. Not having a job implies a few different things: 1) He's not old enough to get a job, 2) he's so stupid no one wants to hire him, 3) he doesn't want to work or 4) he's too busy with other things for a relationship; three out of the four don't reflect terribly well on him. And don't even tell me that he doesn't need to make any money for you guys to just hang out together and have fun, because that's horseshit. I know what bored, horny teenage couples do: they have sex. Which brings us to my next point.
2) You are not allowed to have sex. I realize that this is more a hope than anything I can actually enforce, and that I won't be able to follow you two everywhere. What I can enforce is that when you're in my house your door is always open to any room you walk into with him, you don't leave my site when he's around, and that John Boy's sword stays sheathed at all times. Because if I suspect that he's whipped his teenie weemis out to do anything other than piss in one of my many precious porcelain bowls, I will tie him down, and slowly, painfully and nothing remotely close to surgically grind his dick off with a block of 12-grit sandpaper. He'll be praying for death by the time I get done with him. I do this not because I'm an overbearing asshole father, but because I want you to realize that if you get pregnant, you will spend the next18 years of your life wiping shit up, explaining shit, picking up shit, discussing unnecessarily dramatic shit and finally boxing up and moving shit before you get your life back. Also, by the time you two are in high school there's the very real chance that your mother won't even be offering me pity sex, which means that if I'm not getting any in my own house, no one else is either.
3) Any guy you bring home needs to respect that this is my house and he has to follow your mother's stupid rules like the rest of us. I'm not dealing with some swoll, cock-diesel, machismoed-up motherfucker who thinks he's gonna come rolling through my house like he owns it, offending the rest of us. He may be able to bench press a Cadillac and run circles around me, but I guarantee you he's not bringing anything a shot of laxative slipped into his drink and a 19 million-volt taser can't handle. We'll see who's tough when he's blacked out, shitting himself and having a seizure at the end of my driveway while I stand over him taking a selfie that I'll caption with "U mad, bro?" that gets posted to Facebook. When I say, "Don't lean back in the chair" in a friendly, fatherly tone, he needs to hear, "Don't lean back in my motherfuckin' chair" as though it's being told to him by Samuel L. Jackson.
4) No drugs and no booze. I know -- I'm no fun. After you get to college, you'll have the freedom to make all the ill-advised life choices you want as long as you can pass your classes and afford to do it. But until then, your ass is mine, and if some needle-dicked, dimwitted dickhead brings you back drunk or high on anything other than life, you'll be grounded for at least a month, and the only entertainment options available to you will be a DVD library of old after-school specials and a Bible. As for John Boy, he'll get either the sandpaper or taser trick again; maybe both if the situation warrants it.
5) I'm watching you. I'm able to see everything you do on our home network. That means I'll be able to see your personal Facebook account even though you thought you locked me out, I'll be able to see your secret Facebook account that you think I don't know about, and virtually anything else you do on a screen. You will have no clue any of this is happening until you and your little man friend (who's Indian name would be Thinks With His Dick) start wandering from casual conversation into sexting territory, or worse, doing weird shit over a video chat, and I have to pull the plug on the network and kick the door in like a one-man SWAT team and save you from yourself. The first time something like this happens, you'll get a talk and a warning -- and obviously a new door. The second time this happens, I'll sneak over to Thinks With His Dick's house and staple his balls to his iPad and beat him unconscious with his laptop. Hopefully he figures it out before I need to escalating things to the sandpaper and taser level.