Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots.
Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object.
Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and my old down hunting jacket – zipped up to her throat. Remember, I have field-dressed elk ten times your size…with a pen knife. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. It takes very little for me to drift back a few years and mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a hostile drive-by vehicle.
Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are sofas, beds, or anything softer than a wooden stool.
Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. I may appear to be a middle-aged, gray-headed, dimwitted has-been.
You may glance at her , so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck.
If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off my daughter's body, I will remove them.
Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier and I will kill you.