Your future looks a hell of a lot brighter through beer goggles.

And there are very few opportunities in life to do something right, actually feel good about it, and get a nice buzz going at the same time.

Which is why it’s critical to bring a case of brew to your child’s back-to-school night.

First, you sort of know it’s mannerly to bring along a little something when you’re invited somewhere. Second, you also know these academic evenings can be as tedious as reading itself.

The process is as simple, and it’s similar to another academic standout: a college tailgate party. You mosey into the room (humble and smiling) with the bounty of beer tucked under one arm and a cold tall boy in your other hand…and that hand, naturally, is extended to your child’s teacher. It’s an offer of liquid sustenance, yes, but also a way of saying to her: “I come in peace. I come in a partying frame of mind. I come with another case in the minivan if you want to meet me out there after this horseshit evening ends…”

Then do what is proper and good and uniquely American: distribute those cheap ales to everyone around and expect nothing in return except respect for doing the right thing.

That's not a purr. That's a cry for help.

It would be foolish of you to turn down these requests. You see, Samantha is growing, learning and adapting to the world around her, and that world often needs the fuel of uncooked sirloin.

Which brings us to Samantha’s alleged anger issues.

Sure, she has been accused of impaling a neighbor’s American Girl doll with a marshmallow skewer, but that’s only because she didn’t get the biggest s’more. And, yes, your cat Pattycake, once a brazen feline, often sprints from the room when Samantha rumbles in (those kitty headlocks have worn out their welcome). But her bouts of “aggression” are merely being confused with playfulness.

Much like a misunderstood NFL player who might occasionally break a beer bottle over a stranger’s head in a traffic altercation, your child is simply expressing herself and reacting to the stimuli around her.

Just make sure you have plenty of T-bones on hand for Samantha’s lunch, otherwise it could get ugly for Pattycake.

After the initial sting you'll start to get numb to the pain. Just like real life.

But this is like inserting a Lego in your puppy’s ass for soiling your carpet…which doesn’t work, as we’ve learned through, um, friends who have told us as much. (Seriously, we don’t even own Legos.)

Feeding your kid soap is a kinder, gentler form of punishment. It can be used for any number of transgressions (rudeness, poor grades, trying to stuff Legos up your puppy’s ass), yet we’ve found it works best when used in conjunction with a clean soul.

For example, if your child has shown his dark side at any point in the day, he’ll know that bath time will be a special treat.

Say something like, “You know, Timmy, mommy and daddy like it when you have clean, arms and legs and face, but God likes it when you have clean insides, too. And the only way to be clean inside and have a pristine soul is to eat this scented soap that smells like church.”

Timmy might resist but remind him it could be worse: He could be your puppy.

Helmut? I don't need no stinking helmut.

He is destined for life’s fringes, good people, but you can help him feel included right now. Gang life usually gets a bad rap because of petty things like extortion, money laundering, fraud, death and mayhem. But it takes a village of young thugs to make all of this happen.

That’s where your son comes in.

Gangs have notoriously low standards when it comes to acceptance: There are no standardized tests, no physical fitness tests, and basically no litmus for anything other than having an empty canvas of skin for some kick-ass tats and unruly facial hair.

You make the introduction in, say, a futon store parking lot, and the gang will take it from there. It’s like having free day care for life…and you won’t have to make space on the fridge for all of those crappy art projects.

Don't get too close to the window. Or the camera flash.

Let’s face it, the sun is Satan’s play toy.

With his ball of hell fire, the Evil One is able to create droughts, sizzle the new paint job on your Escalade, and coax nubile young women to wear bathing suits exposing lovely, sun-kissed soft skin parts that the dark demon wants the world to illicitly see.

And then there’s the issue of your children’s sensitive skin.

During the summer, you’ve done a great job of forcing them to wear long sleeves and floppy hats in the pool. But what about the harmful sun rays inside your house, reflecting off appliances and your white walls? Studies we sense are being conducted right now by grad students who’ve given up on finding cures for major affictions and human suffering will show that it’s important to slather on sunscreen indoors.

Your children might ask you why it’s necessary. For example, they might say, “But mommy, why is this necessary?” in which case you should rattle on about Satan and toxins and an overbearing socialist government and the debt crisis and the high cost of a perm and how your house cleaner Luci has leathery Satan skin and how it irritates you that Daddy spends a lot of time and attention showing Luci the many uses of a mop….

And by that point your children will simply give up and resign themselves to smelling like coconut cream all summer.

Related rules:

• Rule #40: Keep Your Kid in a Helmet 24/7
• Rule #69: Transport Your Child in a Hamster Ball
• Rule #17: Scare Your Child Shitless About Germs

Daddy! How much longer before I get to glow in the dark?

You have never been afraid of strong electrical currents, but you do have to support your family and couldn’t afford to be out of work if, in the unlikely event, an accident with actual, you know, electricity should occur.

So hedge your bets and let your children bear the brunt of testing all the rewiring you’ve done in the new family room.

Some of you alarmist and “safety-first” parents are probably scratching your heads and saying, “That doesn’t even sound safe for barnyard animals, much less the child who I make wear a helmet in the tub. What exactly is wong with you?”

Well, if you think there’s something wrong with building a child’s character, then we guess we are wrong to teach our kids to salute flags, assist the elderly across busy intersections, and make thank-you quilts for veterans returning from overseas.

Oh, so now you don’t see how these are in any way related, and you believe we’re using a clever rhetorical flourish as a diversion? Absurd. Perhaps you need to look more deeply inside and ask yourself what type of American you are…

You gotta be shitting me. Is that another floater?

Well, they staged an ugly coup in your child’s colon, broke down the doors to the anal palace, and came screaming into the previously tranquil kingdom of the neighborhood pool’s 2 feet area.

The resulting spasm of fetid floatsam cleared the pool witin seconds, leaving Jamie both ashamed and embarrassed.

Of course, you always want to shield your child from shame, especially when it’s just as easy to blame someone else.

Quick action is essential. Grab your poopy child, thrust him close to your chest as if to shield hom from the filth, and declare out loud that you “cannot believe the irresponsible barbarians” who call themselves your neighbors. Add the requisite: “What is wrong with you people?!”

A haughty approach is important here, as you turn on your heels to leave.

It getting close to your child’s snack time anyway: prunes with a black-bean purée dip.

I'll always be there to hold your hair back as you puke after I spin ya on the Tilt-a-Whirl if ya know what I mean.

There are a number of reasons for this, not the least of which is you do not trust people from other states, much less people from Europe or “Europeans” as many are called by people who try to be all superior.

While you recognize that travel was an important part of your social development, especially the summer you smuggled cod and dope across the Canadian border in a Pinto, you do not have the funds to allow your child to experience “culture.”

What you do have, however, is the carnival in town.

Which means you have the perfect opportunity to play matchmaker for your daughter and the free-spirited and clean-living gentlemen who work as carnies.

If you make the rounds on the first night of the local carnival, you should have the pick of the litter for your daughter. Once a carnie begins his old-fashioned courtship, which often involves discounted funnel cake, countless rides on the Matterhorn, and a free behind-the-scene tours of the goat tent, your daughter will be officially smitten.

She’ll also forget all about Europe and, if lucky, get to travel with her new paramour to carnivals and county fairs in an array of exotic locales in super-store parking lots.

It's simple, Timmy. You urinate on the toilet seat, God urinates on the world. And it's your fault.

Everyone is so convinced that earthquakes, wildfires, hurricanes and lousy liposuction jobs are acts of god…or maybe Rupert Murdoch.

God and Murdoch are great candidates, but they don’t necessarily help you instill a lack of confidence, coupled with a dose of paranoia, in your child. You want your son and daughter to feel the weight of the world coming down on them for misguided actions?

Next time Timmy carelessly misses the toilet when emptying his weak bladder, tell him the mishap caused a million-acre brush fire in Montana. “Damn it, son! Now antelopes have no place to roam…and it’s all because of you.”

And the C- Brittany got on her report card in social studies? If she is told her crappy grade resulted in the flooding of sacred boar-hunting habitat on the pristine island of Dickweed, it’s a good bet she’ll never get a C- in social studies again…and her geography IQ (while searching for Dickweed on a map) will soar.

Go ahead, look it up.

Come on, dad. If we're going to run a profit on this motherfucker we're going to need a bigger patch than that.

We’ve even heard stories about right-thinking parents who have put their kids to work mowing lawns for seniors in the neighborhood, working at farmer’s markets and, of course, there’s the requisite lemonade stand that always looks great in family photo albums.

These pursuits are wonderful and wholesome…but they produce chump change.

Instead, consider a summer pastime that’s about getting your child’s hands dirty and making serious coin: growing a cash crop of hearty weed.

It’s a horticultural lesson with a sprinkling of black-market economics and mob danger. (And we dare you to say “black-market economics and mob danger” to your 10 year old and not have him grin like a cute pirate with happy gas.)

For those of you who don’t live in California or the District of Columbia, you might be saying, “Yes, I like the idea immensely, especially because the weed I’ve been getting from Wayne the Weed Man has been particularly shitty of late. But I seem to recall that growing, harvesting and selling weed is illegal. Did I miss something?”

Other than your wife’s last six birthdays, no, you haven’t missed anything.

But, really, what could go wrong?

After all, if things go south because your neighbor squeals, blame the kids: They’re too young to do time, and the short stint they have in juvenile detention will give you an opportunity to get away to Daytona with your bride since you did, in fact, forget your anniversary, too.