At the very least they didn't tell you how you were conceived. There is nothing quite like hearing about the acrobatic exploits of ones own mother. I had the benefit of growing up with an asexual mother and an alcoholic step father and thus, never had to endure listening to mom's head slam into the wall or any sort of depraved grunting noises. Some of my friends, however, were hardly so lucky and almost nightly drifted off to sleep accompanied by the lurid sounds of awkward middle-aged passion.

I count my blessings.