Hey, Miss Satanist

Sitting with Mom and Dad, having a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the kitchen table.
My phone rings:

Heyyyy miss murder can IIIIII, hey miss murder can IIII, make beauty stay if IIIII take myyyy liiiiife??

I excuse myself from the table, and speak to my friend who only called to give me details about her flight that comes in on Thursday.
I hang up and return to see an upset dad.

Dad: What does your phone say?!
Me: My ring tone?
Dad: Yes, when people call you.
Me: Well, it depends. Usually it's this one song by a guy named Pitbull... but the song that came on right now is for certain people. It brings back memories. Should I sing it with my mom? She knows it too.
Dad: What kind of garbage do you guys listen to?!
Me: It's a song dad... the guy sounds good. And like I said, the song brings back memories.
Dad: You'll probably start listening to satanic shit and continue to listen because it "sounds" good.

... I guess I won't clue him in on that one song I refer to as "the sexy rape song" ("Sic Transit Gloria... Glory Fades." Sorry Mr. Lacey, but whispering "This is so messed up" the way you do will only make me WANT to rape you).
... and he'll never know about me listening to Megadeth... or singing along to Tool's "Vicarious" (dear God, I'm sure he'd have some sort of exorcism performed on me).