I went to high school with a kid just like Comcast. He was a big kid, with big, giant, black hair. He’d spouted some story about how his long ago distant cousin was related to Russian royalty, a tzar or Rumplestiltskin or some such.
One day, this great oak of a boy shows up in a shiny new car. He says his divorcee mom has agreed to buy liquor for his high school parties because, he says, “she says that if she buys the booze and my friends come to my house, that will keep us all out of trouble.”
Of course, so will prison, largely.