Allow Me to Rant About the Play-Date Epidemic

When the hell did the “play-date” become an acceptable idea? When I was a kid you went out and played with friends after they “knocked” for you. And if they didn’t knock, you just went to the playground, basketball court, or the baseball field and found kids to play with. There was no formal agreement between parents. They were just glad to get you out of the house for awhile so they could screw like a couple of saggy-assed jackrabbits.

As kids we went out to “play”. As teenagers we went out on “dates”. We never mashed the two together to form a new thing.

Not the case today with “play-dates”. First, little Sammy’s mother’s people have to get in contact with my wife’s people or vice-versa. Then Palm Pilot’s are checked and synchronized, waivers drafted, signed in the presence of a notary public, and then security clearances are granted. A five-digit confirmation number is then text-messaged to all involved parties.

The planning and red tape takes longer than the actual event.

Sammy’s mother actually had the stones to break out a checklist in front of my wife to be sure our household was “suitable” for her fat little bastard.

The questions read like something asked of a Supreme Court nominee during a congressional hearing:

Have either of you ever been convicted of a felony?
Do you have piercings or tattoos that could possibly upset a child?
Are there guns in the house?
Are there pornographic materials in the house?

Answers: NO, NO, YES, and YES but I wish I had more, in that order. And the first NO can be easily converted to a YES if you ask one more stupid question!

“…and Sammy prefers two-ply Charmin when he makes”.

When she used the word “makes” I hoped to hell she meant it in the context of “he makes an F-14 fighter out of two-ply toilet paper” because of some obscure paper airplane FAA safety standard or something to that effect. But, if she used the word “makes” as a substitute for “takes a dump” her not so little Sammy might as well start the weekly shrink sessions ASAP.

Such preparation and aggravation just so Sammy can come to my Bobby’s house and sit in his room while playing Rampage: Total Destruction on his Play Station 2.

If you tell the kids to go outside to throw the football they look at you like you’re growing another head. My son told me he’s tired of “throwing the football” after three hours of Madden NFL 2006.

I don’t know where this is going to lead when these kids become teenagers?

Am I going to have to call the high school hotties’ mom and say “On October 23 is Pamela available for a play-date with Bobby?” “She is that’s great!” “Okay let’s synchronize here… “At around 9:00 PM right after the movie Bobby’s going to make a move, they will start with some tongue kissing… then ya know maybe a hand under the shirt, if that works out okay he will most likely slide his digits down south. “What kind of shrubbery will Bobby be dealing with? What brand of condom is agreeable? Any lubricant allergies we should be made aware of? Okay, make some calls and get back to me...”

Let’s please stop all these play-dates before it’s too late.

I’ll be outside with my bat, my ball, and my glove if anyone is interested in a father-son pickup baseball game, no appointment necessary.