Do you ever look for a book of morals, but it's always the same old hogwash, such as "The Golden Rule"? Look no more! With "Fantastic Morals That You and Your Family Will Enjoy!" you and your children will be immersed in invigorating life lessons, s...
The time is 10:30. You have just sent your 16-year old son to bed; shortly after, you go to sleep yourself.
Unbeknownst to you, your son has other plans. He is not going to sleep.
First, he gets out of bed and raids the fridge for shredded cheese and devours it all, as if his mouth were a vacuum, destined to purge the earth of any and all dairy products.
He shrugs on a black hoodie and goes outside. The night is cold. His friends are already there, in their monster truck. They're wearing Supreme™ hoodies and white Vans. Everyone's hair looks like this—
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They all drive to a shady alleyway, shouting at girls to pull down their tops, and arrive. People are already there. They're gang members. And your son is the leader.
First, they buy drugs off of shady people from Craigslist and smoke them until they're in debt. Then they drink and pick up random chicks they find on the sidewalk and bang them like 8 times each.
They go back into the considerably more crowded truck and drive to a building. There are people inside.
The Gucci Gang™ (which your son has so-cleverly named, though it changes every hour) beats them up and steals everything. Now they have money to pay back those wicked awesome dealers from Craigslist.
Then the black cloaks go on. Hoods are up. And the ritual begins.
Everyone makes a blood sacrifice, and they drag the people they beat up to the center of the room, where the pentagram lays under a large metal pot, and start to chant. A high, cold voice laughs and says "Thank you for your sacrifice."
The sacrifice would seem to be useless, as the Bros Before Hoes ASSociation™ didn't get anything in return, but you'd be wrong. They'd do anything for the Dark Lord.
It's almost time to get up for school. The Bros™ drive back to their houses, and leave after doing elaborate secret handshakes, followed by "no homo".
Your son sneaks back inside your house, takes off his hoodie, pats the dog hello, and goes back inside his room. He slips in his bed and gets a few minutes of sleep before you go into his room to wake him up.
You briefly wonder why he looks so tired. Maybe the teachers are overworking him, the poor baby. You suspect nothing.
