Hey girls, how’d you like to go to work and get raped and bloodied by a sweaty French socialist? You wouldn’t? I didn’t think so. Me neither. I feel for the young West African woman who had that ghastly French IMF jackass paw her in his $3,000 a night NYC hotel room.
As a dad, I can’t imagine that happening to one of my girls, which is exactly why my wife and I made certain that when my daughters became quasi-ambulatory they would learn to be wickedly adept in the art of self defense. I suggest you do the same for your girls—as in muy pronto.
After ten plus years of training, both of my twentysomethings are now scary proficient in the Gracie School of Jiu-Jitsu. Indeed, they have been/are being “educated” by some of the top fighters on this terra firma. Kowabunga, baby.
Yep, I sure as heck would advise some fat sack of slop like that IMF weed against jacking with them, as they would be very clever if it came to rendering inoperative and/or killing said violent beast. (By the way, if ever there was an apropos acronym suited for an old, grody rapist it’s gotta be IMF.)
However, as I found out while being interviewed during my book promotions on raising girls, not everyone out there seems to agree that women should be capable and cool with having the skills needed to play hacky sack with a horndog’s skull. Allow me to explain.
When my brilliant, divinely inspired, Amazon.com top ranking parenting book, Raising Righteous & Rowdy Girls, was released on April Fool’s day of this year I got to hawk it on many, many radio and TV shows across this fair land. Young and old, male and female, flora and fauna, and Burt and Loni have received it with yummy delight. All of the chapters rock, of course, and have garnered sweet praise.
Three particular chapters, however, seem to get the lion’s share of attention from my road-tested tome. My chapter on “the 10 Commandments for My Daughter’s Potential Boyfriends” gets mad love. But eclipsing the brilliance of that afflatus are my first two chapters, which exhort dads to teach their daughters how to fight and how to shoot guns.
When talk show hosts ask me to succinctly sell my book, I tell them that if it’s read and obeyed it’ll do three things for a padre’s niña: 1) It’ll keep her from ever dating Charlie Sheen. 2) It’ll help her avoid acting like Snooki. And 3) It may well save her life.
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