~ Your wife on your son's laziness“ For fucks sake! Not on our bed!”
~ You, on your son having "humpty dumpty" in your bed“I hate them because they won't stay out of my life, GODDAMMIT!”
~ Your son on your parenting skills“Mom likes me more ever since he raped the cat.”
~ Your daughter on your son's sex life
No doubt about it, your son is a problem child. He was going to be your daughter, but you couldn't control the birth results — not without a coat hanger, anyway. No matter how good your son's life is, he will most likely complain endlessly throughout it. You'll eventually end up telling him that he was a mistake, because of how horribly the little bastard will turn out.
Life begins for the asshole...[edit | edit source]
By the time your son learns to talk, he'll already be an annoying, selfish prick, because he couldn't care less about how other people in the world are dying from war and disease. His first words will be "Mine, mine mine!", and he'll want you to buy every toy in Toys Я Us. In order to keep your son from crying and making a scene, you'll buy him a gay Godzilla toy that is the cheapest piece of crap you've ever seen. You'll eventually learn to only buy the cheapest toys, because they'll break every time he throws them, and then he'll just cry for "more!" When he's not busy with the latest Nintendo system, your son will run around the house breaking only your most valuable possessions, like the fine china no one uses, and the urn full of Joe DiMaggio's ashes that you bought off of eBay. Your son will always be a hyper little spazz, and there's not a damned thing you can do about it without giving him pills. Unless, of course, you want to stop feeding him — and that's a movie with only one possible ending: your sorry ass lying in a jail cell, crying for your Momma, as three large black men sing Rodgers and Hammerstein tunes at you. Yes, it's much too late to put him up for adoption now. But you have no idea how much life is going suck for the family when your son gets older.
Ungrateful little bastard[edit | edit source]
The only reason your son hates you more than he used to is that you couldn't afford that car he wanted for his Sweet Sixteen. (Don't try to explain to him that Sweet Sixteens are for whiny bitchy girls. That's what your son probably is, anyway.) Your son repeatedly exclaims he's going to kill himself, even though he's not emo. No matter how ridiculously angry and stubborn he gets, it's a bad idea to tease him by asking if he's having his period, because that'll just make him throw a tantrum. Although your son doesn't know how good he's got it, his sex life sucks. He's constantly looking at weird fetish-porn sites that are so nasty, it makes you want to tie him into burlap bag and drop him down a manhole. He'll never have a girlfriend, so whatever you do, never leave him home alone with the computer. The mouse will be sweaty, sticky and smell like shit, and the computer will have hundreds of new viruses. You'll find out how desperate your son is when you notice that your pets have oddly-distended anuses and shriek with terror when he walks into the room. From that point on, you'll start keeping your daughter at a safe distance from your son at all times.
Your son the lazy druggie[edit | edit source]
After returning home from months of rehab, your son will admit that doing cocaine was a "bad idea", and move on to marijuana. He'll spend countless hours in his bedroom — not sleeping, though. Oh, no. He's just getting high off the pot he bought from one of his dropped-out-of-high-school friends. Your son is an anarchist, atheist, marijuana-smoking son of a bitch who doesn't care about anyone else except himself. He already does nothing to help around the house, except eat all the food in the fridge. And if your groceries are too expensive as it is, don't let his friends come over. They'll rob you blind, leave roach butts lying about, and devour whatever food your son didn't already consume. In the process, they'll show you just as much respect as your son does — which, of course, is "none". By now, your son is done with the wigger look, and wears beanies and tie-dyed shirts and calls everyone "brah", as if the whole world is his friend. In truth, the only people who even know he exists foster a burning hatred for him, and would love nothing more than to feed him head-first to a giant millipede. But he doesn't know that, and telling him will just make him whine that you're "like, harshing my mellow, maaan!". I bet you can't wait for him to leave home and go to college, but I've got news for you: when he gets there, he'll just hang out at the "quad", playing hackey-sack and smoking pot with all the other pot-headed idiots who spend their semesters cultivating sativa in their dorm closets.
30 years Later...[edit | edit source]
Congratulations! Your son is no longer a pot-head, and he's cut ties with all of his dumb-ass friends. In fact, he has no friends at all and lives in your basement. It doesn't really matter whether he went to college or not, because he never had a job and never will. All he does is sit at the computer and write shitty articles for Uncyclopedia, and chat with strippers on live web cams, running up your credit card bill in the process. (Smart move on your part, by the way. I can see where he got his genius.) Every once in a while, your son leaves the house with a fist-full of your money to see an "old friend". He promises he'll pay you back for all that cash, but you know he never will. At some point, the police will show up at your house with a warrant for your son's arrest. When he gets back from jail, you'll have to move because your son will have a fancy new restriction issued by the state: he won't be allowed within 2 miles of an elementary school. Too bad, sucker. You'll never have that doctor or lawyer you were hoping for. I guess you should've gone to town with that coat hanger, back when you had the chance, huh?