#2. It Turned Him into a Racist
"So which one is you?" I asked, motioning to the three men on screen.
"Well, the game lets you play all three of them, but right now, I'm the ..." He paused for a second, suddenly measuring his words.
"... the middle guy."
"Don't patronize me," I warned. "You know I don't know directions."
He took a slight breath and reluctantly said, "The black guy."
I sat in shock for several seconds before exclaiming, "You racist. Piece. Of. Shit."
"Dad, I'm not rac-"
"I taught you better than that," I yelled. "In this house, we do not use racist terms like 'black' or 'African-American.' What have I told you a thousand times?"
"I'm not referring to black people as 'not white.' That's every bit as racist and degrading as using a full-on slur."
"What, you have a thing against white people?" I asked, in horror of his racial defiance. "You're too good to play a white man now? Are you racist against white people?"
"No, Dad, I'm not racist against white people. The game just makes you switch between cha-"
"Don't cloud my judgment with your fancy words, devil! That's it. This Monday, I'm taking you downtown so you can learn a little bit about your own culture and learn to have some pride in your race."
He stared off into the distance, as if trying to figure out what place I was talking about. Then suddenly, "Oh, hell no. Dad, the place you're talking about is a white pride organization and it is literally the most racist place you could possibly take me."
"Silence! You will go, and that is final. Before the end of the week, you will cease to be racist against white people, instead shouting to the heavens a message of the pride and power of the white race!"
Via Wikimedia Commons
"Hello, my name is Chad, and I'll be your historian today."
I stormed out of the room to make the appointment. From behind me, I could hear him mumbling something about calling the police if I made him go. Whatever. He's lucky I hadn't called the police on him. Especially after I discovered that ...
#1. It Made Him Thirst for Death
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After he finished his anti-racist shower, things calmed down considerably. I watched from the couch as he drove around the city, slowly, obeying every traffic light and occasionally stealing a glance my way to make sure I approved. Aside from occasionally crossing the center line, which I corrected via threat of grounding, he did quite well. Maybe this wasn't such a bad game after all.
After a perfect three-point park, he exited the vehicle and walked down the sidewalk toward a clothing store. Then, as if his rage had broken a thousand-year struggle against its mental leash, his character slammed into a pedestrian, nearly knocking her down.
"Hey, that's extremely rude. Devil rude. Get back there and apologize to that woman," I demanded.
He turned to respond, but was suddenly interrupted by a jolt of surprise. "GAH, SPIDER!"
I followed his pointing finger to a large black spot on the floor, not more than 3 feet from me. It was what we in Illinois call a wolf spider, so named because they are reborn from the ashes of fallen wolves. I've heard that they can grow to be the size of a man's head, but this one must have been a baby because it was only half the size of my palm -- for reference, my palm is exactly twice the size of a baby wolf spider.
As soon as he exclaimed the word "spider," I jumped into immediate action, leaping up onto a nearby chair to make myself appear larger and more frightening to the spider. In a brave effort to scare it away, thus mercifully sparing its life, I let out a high-pitched scream and released an abundance of saline from my eyes, known by wise men to be a natural spider repellent.
Despite my heroic attempts, it stayed in place, taunting us with its steadfast grip on our floor. That's when my son showed his true colors. With a gaze as cold as arctic night, he lifted his foot. And without the slightest hint of emotion, he brought it down. Just like that, he was a killer. A victim of Grand Theft Auto V, forever damned to a life of unforgivable sin.
In spider legend, it is known as the Eater of Worlds.
Slowly and cautiously, I backed out of the room. As my son watched me, his eyes showed confusion, but his heart showed the home of the devil.
I've since burned down my house to cleanse our tainted possessions, and my wife brought me to a magic doctor who gave me anti-devil pills to keep the dark infection away. So far, they have worked perfectly. But I can tell you one thing -- we will never trust a Grand Theft Auto game again. My son deserves a normal life, and that game is designed to destroy. Fair warning.