Your son's personal icon is a sweaty blog-writer who pisses into a jug precisely because you thought the majority of his adolescence should be spent in menial classroom settings such as trigonometry and karate. The good news is that if you managed to raise a son who isn't what I'm describing, he's probably just a sexual miscreant who mythologizes a collection of genetically-modified transient meatheads from the most popular tax-funded sports team in the area. His lack of personal honor or responsibility creates scores of broken women who seek to recoup his devaluations with pained cringeposting. Sad!