eight simple rules for dating my daughter

Hi, I’m fictional character H.J. Daddyrules.

You might remember me from my TV show, 8 Simple Rules Dot Dot Dot For Dating My Teenage Daughter, in which I died early in the second season, coincidentally after popular television comedian John Ritter also died.

Remember how the last thing my daughter Bridget, played by the radiant Kelly Cuoco, said to me was “I hate you” and it sort of hung over her for the rest of the show, even when my nephew, Sebulba Daddyrules, played by the incomparable David Spade, turned up in season 3 and talked so much they cancelled the show, but you were always just thinking “do you reckon Bridget is thinking about how her dad died on a grocery store floor, agonizing over how she said the words ‘I hate you’ just because I said she couldn’t use the car?” Poignant stuff I’m sure you’ll agree.

Anyway I’m a sort of ghost now. Do you remember my rules from the show? Here we gooooo!

  1. Use your hands on my daughter and you’ll lose them after.
  2. You make her cry, I make you cry.
  3. Safe sex is a myth. Anything you try will be hazardous to your health.
  4. Bring her home late, there’s no next date.
  5. If you pull into my driveway and honk, you better be dropping off a package because you’re sure not picking anything up
  6. No complaining while you’re waiting for her. If you’re bored, change my oil.
  7. If your pants hang off your hips, I’ll gladly secure them with my staple gun.
  8. Dates must be in crowded public places. You want romance? Read a book.

You may have noticed a pattern – yes, four of those rules involve threats of physical violence, and you’d better believe those words weren’t for show. I severed countless teen hands, brutalized boys who tried to use a condom on or, heaven forbid, in my daughters, even stapled a pair of low jeans into the foreskin of a young man I believe was called Chaz. When one of them made my little Kerry cry, I glued his feet to the ground and force fed him printer ink until it flowed like wine from his other holes and ducts. “Mr. Daddyrules!,” he wept. “H.J.! H.J.! I thought you liked me! I just watched Schindler’s List with her! It would be odder if she didn’t cry!”

But I stick to my rules, or my name’s not Hand Job Daddyrules.

Unfortunately, after I died, God – who is real – threw me into Hell as a direct consequence of this. Mine is a cruel punishment indeed – I am forced to take part in endless consecutive seasons of 8 Simple Rules Dot Dot Dot For Dating My Teenage Daughter, as if the show never ended. Although time has lost all meaning for me, a brief look at Wikipedia suggests that we would now be approaching the 18th season of the show, and the sheer amount of time passing has rendered my original rules at best a little out of date and at worst hokey.

As such, please find attached 8 Simple Rules Dot Dot Dot For Dating My 30-ish Daughter OR SON, Come On It’s the Tennies Baby Get With It:

  1. .You can fuck in the house – you’re in your 30s after all – just don’t do it in my man cave. My man cave is for me and honestly it’s the only place I can fuck after your mother left me. Don’t let my fucks and your fucks coalesce. I don’t want to think that bits of my ass are crawling up yours because of sofa friction.
  2. If you are some kind of demon, because the show is also now set in Hell for budgeting reasons, at least try and knock before you come in. No one wants fuckin’ Pazuzu flash framing all over the place unexpectedly, least of all my daughters and/or son.
  3. If you are my son Rory from the show (played by the magnificent Martin Spanjers) do not let the weird subplot from the first season where you reveal that you and your friends raided your older sister’s underwear drawer blossom into a full-on problem. I’m just a bit worried that it’s still playing on your mind these days. Come on Rory, you can be with other women, it’s not Game of Thrones.
  4. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. He’ll hear you and it’ll cause me no end of trouble.
  5. Especially don’t use Jesus’ name in vain because he’s just fucking annoying.
  6. Please bring food. They don’t give you food in Hell, but you feel twice as hungry all the time. I like corn on the cob and lamb. No apples.
  7. Do not go on a nice date and then dream about my daughters or son. Dreams become real in Hell and then turn into nightmares, and then I have to use my day trying to save you and them from your own psyche, which is a waste of my time and yours.
  8. Safe sex really is a myth down here. I don’t want to tell you what to do, but if you want genitals instead of a screaming crow’s face at the end of the night don’t buy any of the condoms or IUDs from Hell supermarkets.

Anyway, that’s all from me. The moral is that you should say your prayers, and make sure your daughters can’t enjoy themselves. Goodnight.

Strokes, Did You Have One??

Sometimes it can be hard to tell if you have had a stroke, but with Regular Features’ new mnemonic method, you will always know if your brain got stuffed up by greasy old blood.


  • Pins – are there pins in me? I can’t feel them
  • Legs – are they at opposite 90 degree angles, like two juts of a swastika
  • Egrets – are any carnivorous birds circling
  • Abraham – do I think I’m one of the fathers of Judaism
  • Slime – where did all that slime come from? Is it me?
  • Egrets – Please check again for those birds
  • Heron – this is another name for an egret, honestly I’m worried about them
  • Edging – do I respond to soft, agonising fellatio
  • Lips – are they now two penises, making a big fleshy kisser
  • Penis – is it up on my chops
  • I am having a stroke
  • Am I having a stroke
  • My perception of time is warped, I am seeing this event from the past in a dream, but I see nothing past this moment but blackness, does that mean death or a moment of true choice?
  • Suck my dick
  • Trousers – take them down
  • Rub it up
  • Open a vein
  • Krokodil – get that Russian drug
  • Inject it into my dick
  • Nothing else
  • Go away I’m dead

Learn more! Episode 215

shit and piss, gunky buttock filled with, harry potter and the

Once upon a time, renowned audio tit Cassetteboy chopped up Stephen Fry’s reading of the Harry Potter books and transformed them into something beautiful. His first story was Harry Potter and the Black Leather Cunt, which was to be followed by Harry Potter and the Underage Blow-Job.

Several years passed, until Log decided to copy this idea, with two fundamental differences. First, he would not have a voice as silky and mellifluous as the other fat old gay, Fry. Secondly, he would just read out lots of swear words he had written, with no audio craftmanship or any real effort. Everyone agreed that this was much better, and that Cassetteboy had wasted his and everyone else’s time.

Everyone, that is, except Joe Skrebels, who took Log’s script, went to the Potter audiobooks, and did it properly.

What a prick.

Learn more! Episode 208

garcia, the travails of

The long-neglected Regular Features voicemail feature revealed a tale of horror, of mystery, of hard, crispy fruits. We have contacted the police.

Learn more! Episode 185

pokemon go, a beautiful story about

Discovered on reddit.com/r/Pokemon

Taking an evening walk through my suburban neighbourhood last week, I couldn’t help but marvel at the effect that Pokemon Go was having on our community’s youth. While not a player myself (my phone is much too small), I enjoyed the sight of once-disparate groups conversing and pointing in glee, brought together by a virtual reality that has such tangible effects on those who choose to believe.

Upon taking particular interest in a young street gang that had paused play to take turns sucking happily on lollipops with some nerds, I slipped off of the street kerb.

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health reports, presidential


“BABY,” screamed Trump, strapping on his space-age leg, “give me the good news”. Dr. Henrik Plaque looked unwaveringly at the presidential candidate in silence for three full seconds before, cowed by the unremitting, childlike moon-eyes that Trump used so well against Fox News anchors and pinko jellybones anarchist hatefucks alike, he cast his eyes down to the fool’s gold carpet and spoke. “Professor Trump,” he muttered, using the honorific his employer preferred in private, “you’ve lost another finger. The lupus is aggressive, and I don’t know how much longer we can keep giving you bionic parts before someone notices you won’t go within a square mile of a school science lab magnet.”

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