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.

1. Teach Them How to Fight.

2. Teach Them How to Shoot Guns. Continued...