The father of a little girl has only one real job in life, the great philosopher Christopher Rock once orated, and that's to keep her off the stripper pole. As long as we provide strong positive values, so we're told, this will overpower the lure of earning 10 times Daddy's annual income by grinding into male crotches to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me."
I've seen firsthand the important role played by bad fathering in stripper production. In my twenties, I dated an exotic dancer myself. (Don't judge me. This was back when I still had closure to achieve for my high-school loser self.) OK, so maybe I didn't "date" Amber. We had one date and it ended in tears — first hers, then mine after she stormed out because I had the brilliant idea of calling her over to my bed using the phrase "Come to daddy."
So I try, I really do. I love my two-year-old daughter unconditionally. Even after carrot-juice diaper events. I read her children's books about female doctors and astronauts. And I do as little meth as possible. And so far, so good. Skylar prefers the Dora the Explora bracelets without glitter and doesn't go by any other names in day care.
Just to make sure, however, I asked a stripper. I told my wife it was necessary for this blog, and she believed me.
"I'm sorry to break it to you, but there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent it," said a woman grinding into my crotch to Motley Crue's "Girls, Girls, Girls." The 5-foot-7 brunette with a koi fish tattooed on her buttocks said her name was Melody and that she was 26.
"The more you try to prevent her (from becoming a stripper)," Melody said, "the more she will want to."
Note to self: Never show my daughter this blog.
What's your plan to keep your daughter off the pole?
