SMOKE ON THIS: Strong Words for Pathetic Dads

Written by Doug Giles on February 13, 2014

I was channel surfing the other day when I landed on some hip-hop music video. It was your basic Stooge-a-Palooza reel.

The scene was typical: The “musicians” and their homies (or “evolutionary holdovers,” as I like to call them) were wearing T-shirts that would be too large for Hogzilla and sporting baseball caps pulled down over their ears like some Fat Albert character. In addition, they all had iced out/gold teeth grills, a prerequisite for the Cult of the Absurd.

These hoodlums also 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.

Weighed down with all their bling, these creative geniuses launched into waving their beer bottles in the air like they just don’t care as they sang/spoke their song so fast they’d make 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 who were a part of these miscreants’ music video.

Dozens of beautiful teens and twenty-something girls were wearing boy shorts and push-up bras as they writhed on the ground and on the hoods of cars as these “artists” poured beer on them, slapped them around, and simulated sex acts with them—with somebody’s daughter! Which left me thinking, ‘Where the hell are these girls’ parents? In particular, where are their dads?’

Father, if your lass is working in one of these music videos, posting nude pictures of herself on Facebook, bearing it all for a Girls Gone Stupid DVD, or surgically inflating her chest to ocean-buoy proportions, then you have clearly not done your job as a father.

Hey, sperm donor, listen up: If you bring a little girl into this world, then it is your job to make certain she’s got two feet firmly planted on terra firma. That’s right, Pappy . . . you are the principal player in keeping your young woman from being the next Anna Nicole Smith.

I have two daughters.  Both of them are sharp, solid and smart. When these female charges popped out of their mommy’s womb years ago, this thing called “responsibility for their upbringing” hit me like a nun chuck.

I didn’t sluff off my role in their lives onto my wife, my church, public school, day care, relatives, TV, or “the village.” I didn’t expect any of them to fill my boots. I, along with my lovely wife, got my daughters here, and damn it, it’s our job—especially my job as alpha male of the Giles castle—to prepare them internally and externally for greatness.

Living in Miami, I knew I would have to pony up and be a major player in my little one’s lives if I wanted them to escape being part of the local teen fart cloud. I knew I’d have to pay attention to them and spend time with them to instill them with solid values and principles. In other words, I was going to have to be a dad in the traditional sense of the word. Isn’t that weird?

Call me goofy, but I don’t want my nippers being inept, stressed out, unconfident young women who hate their bodies, get easily depressed, have no self-esteem, and will likely have issues with their weight. Also, I want to diminish the chances that my girls bail out of school or bow and kiss the ring of some abusive boyfriend or husband.

In addition, I’d like to make certain that my daughters never flaunt their bodies to get the attention of some Darwinian-throwback-gold-toothed-rapping-thug just so they can be the chief hoochie in his stupid booty video.

Furthermore, as my daughters’ dad, I’d like to reduce the possibility that they’ll ever become sex objects—or pregnant teens. I do not want my chicas becoming STD wagons or teens that do dope and abuse booze. I’d like to make certain that they’ve got a snowball’s chance in Miami of ever seeing that junk occur in their lives.

What about you, Papasan? Would you like to guarantee your girl doesn’t end up being YouTube’s slut of the month? You would? Good for you.  I’ve got the road-tested blue print.

To be continued …

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