That first night at home was very surreal. As soon as I walked through the door I was bombarded with hugs from relatives. My grandma, aunt, uncle and cousins were staying over the house. Things were understandably a little bit crowded. My cousins whom I had not seen in years had somehow matured into teenagers seemingly overnight. They passed the time by listening to their iPods and texting various people back and forth. Later that night, the entire family went out to dinner. Even though my sister had just killed herself, the conversations seemed to be all about me; typical of any family gather, be it wedding, birthday and apparently even funerals.

“So, how are things for you up north?”

Once again, I am forced with a choice of either lying or actually telling the truth.

“Good. Things are really good.”

Why should I make them even more depressed?

By the time we had gotten home, I was exhausted. I went straight to my room and started playing The Rolling Stones. I searched through my closet and found a bottle of Mexican Scotch that I received as a present on my twenty-first birthday. I needed a drink. Surprisingly, it had aged well. I took some pills and decided to drift slowly to sleep, but of course pills and booze can make for very interesting dreams.

In this dream, I was once again falling from the Bridge, but my sister was with me. We were both falling and staring at each other, and just as we were about to hit the ocean… the scene had changed again and this time I was having dinner with Maggie at a park. She started running from me and I was chasing her, but I couldn’t catch her. She kept running and running so quickly and yet I kept faltering.

Mental note: no more booze and pills before bed…


The funeral was very solemn. My mother and the rest of the women in attendance all cried. I couldn’t bring myself to cry. It’s funny because I slowly realized that I don’t cry at funerals. I never have. 

I saw my sister in the casket and she looked very peaceful, of course I did half expect her to sit up and yell “Surprise!” at any given minute. I hadn’t really grieved for her though. I was worried that it would happen at the most improper time. My mother was hysterical in her grief. My father, being the tough man that he is, wore his sunglasses throughout the whole thing. He never once shed a tear, at least not in front of any of the family members. I found it particularly amusing that there was a priest presiding over the funeral since my sister was a very adamant atheist. In fact, she is notoriously known for once walking out during a school mass and actually protesting the fact that priests were molesting children. She became something of a legend around my school after that.

In attendance at the funeral were many of her old friends she had since lost contact with. I started thinking about what my funeral would be like. Would it consist mainly of people I had a loose acquaintance with in my younger days? Facebook “friends”? I could just imagine the rogue’s gallery of people who would be in attendance. First and foremost would be Maggie of course. Secondly, would be Logan. I can only imagine that Logan would not only be smoking weed, but also hitting on any female within a one foot radius, most likely Maggie too. What a slap in the face! Lastly of course there would be many childhood friends and high school acquaintances. At that moment, I thought about doing it as soon as I got back to the house. Most of my relatives would already be down here for my sister’s funeral so two birds with one stone, am I right? But two funerals in the span of a week? That might be a little much I guess…

My sister was buried in a family plot that my parents had gotten long ago. After seeing her one last time, she was now buried six feet under ground.






Two hours later and I had almost forgotten how ridiculous the weather is down here. Eighty degrees… on a cool day… Jesus Christ. I partially remember why I left this place to begin with.

I had gotten my bags and waited for hours to get picked up, and then finally… she came.

Maggie was probably still the cutest girl that I have ever known. She came from a big family consisting of three older sisters of questionable morals who all turned out to be gay. She was born and raised here and her family is something of a well known name. Mention her last name and it’s as if you were connected to the mafia or something. Her family had a lot of pull with the local community, but at times was seen as something of an annoyance since they are firm liberals among a community known for its constant conservatism.

Anyways, Maggie was the kind of girl that you would dream of: unbelievably cute, fun, and smart; the kind of girl who would have a beer with you and could drink you under the table. She was the life of the party and could discuss anything with you no matter how trivial. She was a man’s ideal woman and she could give it as well as she took it.

“I heard a rumor that you were coming home” she said in her usual matter-of-fact tone. “Stand up straight. Let me get a good look at you.”

I stood up straight.

“You haven’t shaved. It looks good. Very rugged.”

I cracked a half-smile. We hugged.

There’s a back story to us; not all good and mostly awkward, but what is life if not a series of awkward moments?

She took me to “Heroes”, the local brewery/bar.

“So, how the hell have you been?” she asked.

Sad story or false story?

“I’ve been” I answered.

Vague and leads to a change of conversation.

“That’s not an answer” she countered.

Of course this isn’t the kind of girl who misses much.

“Well, what do you wanna hear?”

A bad question because her inevitable reply was an obvious…


Everything, huh? Very well then…

Maggie and I dated for exactly one year and two weeks. Ours wasn’t a fairy tale boy meets girl relationship that lasts forever. It was fun and sad and if you’re thinking that I’m still in love with her, then you’d be severely wrong.

The breakup was my fault and I realized that later on. It took quite a while for us to reach the final stage of the post-breakup zone. For her part though, she was very persistent in not letting me hate her and I slowly remembered why I fell in love with her in the first place. This did make for many awkward situations, but I usually tolerated her. And I’m not still in love with her.

“Everything being what?” I asked.

“Life. Work. Women. Etc, etc.” she responded.

Now, do I bore her with my stories about how sad and pathetic my life is; how I find my job unfulfilling and how I’ve never found a girl that I could actually tolerate long enough to form a romantic relationship since we broke up?

“Well… I hate my life, my job is slowly killing me and I live in a series of meaningless flings and one night stands just to see if I can still feel anything other than this numbness. How have you been?”

She just stared at me with her non-judgmental, but slightly concerned face.

“Not nearly as spifftacular as you” she replied with her fast wit and penchant for making up words.

“Are you seeing anybody?” I asked even though I knew that if she said yes, I would feel slightly sad and just a tad bit more depressed.

“Kinda. It’s just been a few dates. Nothing serious though.”

Nothing serious. It’s never anything serious with her when it comes to relationships.

“So, why are you down here? I was surprised when I got your call, but you never told me why. It’s not just for a visit, is it?” she asked.

“My sister’s dead. She killed herself actually.”

She sat there, unable to speak. After a few moments of silence, she finally muttered “Shit.” I could see the expression in her face go from the joy of seeing an old friend to complete sadness.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

It had been a very long time since anyone had actually asked me that. I honestly didn’t know how to answer. But before I could, she started crying… very loudly too I might add.

“What the hell are you crying for?” I asked.

“Because your sister is dead! It’s so sad! Why the hell aren’t you crying? She was your sister for Christ’s sake!

Things were getting way too intense at this point. I needed to mellow. Actually, she needed to mellow. So we left and went to go smoke some of my weed at a park by her house. We smoked out of a pipe that I had gotten her one Christmas. The irony in all of this was of course that she also got me a pipe for Christmas.

We talked about meaningless minutia that at the time seemed like we were discussing great philosophical ideas. Needless to say, we were pretty baked. A little too baked really to make it home on time, so I slept at her house. I hadn’t been inside of this house in years. I had found a spot on the couch and got comfy.

I had a dream that night which I was sure must have been from the weed. I was falling slowly off the Bridge, but somehow… I started flying. I was flying towards the ocean and just as I was about to hit… the scene suddenly changed. I was now at a funeral, but not my sister’s. It was mine. Maggie was crying hysterically.

I woke up after that and started wandering around her house.

The next morning, we decided to get some breakfast. We made some more small talk until it was finally time for me to go home. I was dreading my arrival. What would I say? How do I react? I had to fight the  urge to smoke more weed. I had already smoked enough for the time being.

We pulled up to my house. I sat in the car for a few minutes, not really wanting to inside.

“Here we are” she said.

I couldn’t do it.

“Look, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a call. Okay?” she offered.

“Alright” I said.

We shared an awkward hug and then I got my things and got out of her car.




As soon as I got home, I realized that most everything I owned was gone. In preparation for my suicide, I had gotten rid of all of my earthly possessions: my books, movies, music, furniture, clothes… all of them gone. I figured I wouldn’t need them anymore. I had donated my clothes to Good Will; my movies and music had fetched a pretty good price at the local record store. It’s amazing how much some people will pay for the complete Smiths catalog. My books I had donated to a local library, you know the one that isn’t closed down due to budget cuts. Everything I owned, everything that defined me as a person was now gone. This will at least make the packing for my trip home a little easier.

Okay, so I lied. I didn’t exactly throw away everything that I owned. In fact, I did pack what little possessions I had– iPod, cigarettes, pills of all variety and my one nice pair of shoes that I had saved for sentimental reasons. I had no credit card of bank account anymore, but thankfully my parents had arranged my flight.

Clothes were a necessity, especially since I had gotten rid of just about every article of clothing that I owned, so I went into town to pick up some essential items for my trip: cheap clothes at a thrift store and of course, some weed. The clothes were charged to the one credit card I had received in the mail and didn’t throw out. After I activated it, I splurged, figuring that I wouldn’t be around to pay back the debt anyways.

As I looked through the aisles, I was lucky enough to come across several items of my own clothing. I debated whether or not I should actually buy them. After ten minutes of debate, I ended up buying what I could find figuring that when the time finally came I would just give them back again. I had forgotten how much I liked my favorite Star Wars shirt.

The weed I got from my dealer who never charged me anyways. His name was Logan and he lived in an apartment around Haight-Ashbury; the former scene of the hippie movement from the 60’s, but has become over the years fairly conservative. He moved here when he turned 18. He left his cushy middle-class life from Oregon behind, dropped out of college, and headed north to Canada, but he found it in his opinion to be “too clean” and so he settled here instead.

We first met when I had just moved here and was working at Amoeba. He would constantly come in looking for cheap vinyl, specifically Bob Dylan bootlegs. I happened to have a very rare copy of “The Basement Tapes” which I was willing to part with… well, for a price of course. Unfortunately for Logan, he was going through a bit of a cash flow problem, but had in his words “some killer weed that is guaranteed to fuck you up beyond all imagination!” So naturally we exchanged and have been friends ever since.

In his time here, he has become a bit of nuisance to his neighbors for always bringing an “undesirable element” around. However, he pays rent on time and is very reliable, so there wasn’t much they could do to him.

On this particular day, he had “The Basement Tapes” playing; a reminder of our meeting and eventual business relationship.

“How goes it?” he asked and although he wasn’t stoned at this particular moment, he did have that perma-high look to him which I would assume comes from years of almost daily marijuana consumption. He must have a negative sperm count by now.

“It goes” I replied and after a few minutes of small talk, we got down to business.

“I don’t exactly have enough money.”

“That’s fine” he said. “Take a rain check. I know you’re good for it” he said.

And with that, he gave me about a week’s worth of weed. I had no intention of paying him back though, a fact that I felt a little bad about as I was practically ripping off a friend, but I had a goal and nothing was gonna stop me from completing it.

“So, where ya traveling to anyways?” he asked.

“Back home… my sister died.”

“Shit” was all he could muster.

“You know what you need?” he asked, but I already knew the answer.

Fifteen minutes later, we were smoking and listening to vintage Bob Dylan. Now,  Logan is the kind of smoker who likes to get philosophical when he’s high. I don’t mean that in a bad way either. He and I actually do have some very good discussions when we smoke. Today however, I knew the topic of our conversation would be death…

“Fucking tragic” was his take on the matter.

“Well, you know… shit happens, I guess” I said.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my years of traveling and experimenting, it’s this: you gotta take the opportunities, man. Life is too fucking short. One minute you’re rock climbing whilst tripping on shrooms and the next you’re worm food.”

He had a very eloquent way of explaining things.

“Well… she killed herself” I said.

“Fuck… that’s harsh. Was she like sick or something?”


“Well, maybe she did it because she had like cancer or something, you know? You remember that David Lynch movie where the guy is deformed? Well, he offed himself because he had like a tumor or something.”

“Are you talking about The Elephant Man?”

“Yeah! He killed himself because his like huge brain tumor was slowly crushing his skull.”

“I don’t think that’s actually correct…”

“No man, it’s true. It was in that movie.”

I told him that she wasn’t dying. The fact of the matter is that I don’t know why the fuck she did it. Maybe she was unhappy. Hell, that was my reason for almost doing it.

“I think she was just really depressed.”

“Everyone gets a little down though, You know what I do when I’m down?”


“I just listen to some Dylan. You can always find a Dylan song to fit the mood. If you’re down, just put on Blonde on Blonde and think about the great love of your life or some of the best times that you’ve ever had. It’s better than any pill in the fucking world.”

I wasn’t sure if it was because of the weed, but that sounded kinda profound in some odd way.

Mental note: when down, just listen to “Blonde On Blonde.”

We parted ways and I told him that I would see him around sometime after I got back. For his part, he was very cordial and told me to have a safe trip and if I got caught with the weed, then I never heard of him. He was quite paranoid.

Airports are the pits of society along with the DMV. I suspect that Hell is just an endless annoyance of bureaucracy and never ending lines. Something to look forward to perhaps. While I waited, I bought the latest cop of “People” and a Snickers bar. As I read the magazine, I was reaffirmed in my resolve to end my life. I mean, wouldn’t you be if you just read about the latest celebrity mental breakdown and subsequent arrest and 24 hour stay at rehab followed by a 72 day marriage? There’s only o much of this kind of phoniness that a man can take.

Hmm… I still need to hide my weed.

Now, there can be many ways to hide it on a plane. If you’re thinking that I’m gonna swallow it and then shit it out once the plane lands, well you’re wrong. Only mules do that and I’m not a mule. I just need something to get me through the week.

You’d be surprised how no one checks a cigarette pack. That’s enough for a few joints. I never really cared for smoking joints though. I feel like such a cretin. I prefer a pipe, but that’s harder to sneak on a plane. Besides, I have an old pipe hidden in my room at my parents’ house.

Airport security is a joke; the biggest oxymoron since Bush called himself a “compassionate conservative.”  After a pretty intense and intrusive pat down as well as a pass through an X-Ray machine that leaves nothing to imagination, you’re finally ready to board. Now that’s security. Still though, it isn’t good enough since I was able to sneak my weed aboard.

Sitting in a sea of total strangers, I can’t help but feel slightly sorry for them were the plane to crash. I kind of wish it would crash. Would it be fast and painless or slow enough for everyone to call their loved ones? Would I call anyone with a message of love or would I call someone telling them how much I have always hated them as we go down in flames? A conundrum. Still though, half of these people are probably so drugged up on the legalized drugs this country will allow that should the plane in fact go down, they wouldn’t even feel a goddamn thing nor would then even care.

Please remain seated. We will be experiencing some slight turbulence.


Where do I start? Where do I begin? My name? My name isn’t all that important. My life story isn’t all that great either. Nothing horrible has ever happened to me. I wasn’t abused and my parents never beat me. In fact, they mostly encouraged me all of my life. There have been no traumatic experiences in my 25 years of life. I wasn’t raised in a strict religious household and I was never pressured to follow in my parents in footsteps. All things considered, I have had a fairly normal life. I am the product of two middle class Americans who grew up with nothing and as such, they gave my sister and I almost everything.

My life isn’t anything special and at 25 years of age, I have no accomplished much. I am a cynic by nature, but I’m sure there was a time when I was once optimistic. However, that time abruptly ended when I turned eighteen and realized just how truly fucked up this world is.

My hopes and dreams? Well, I never really had any. The only hope I ever had was the hope that I would never end up in prison. Considering my gene pool up until the time I was born, if I somehow managed to stay out of prison and avoid becoming a junkie, addict, and father before the age of eighteen, then I would have to consider my life a success.

The only dream that I can think of was just to get as far away from my family and the city where I grew up in as far as heavenly possible.

I have an older sister born six years before myself. She graduated high school with a decent GPA and left for Berkeley at the age of eighteen, never to return except for Christmas and the occasional funeral. She was interested in writing and was working towards a degree in that when at the age of 23 she dropped out. She spent the rest of her life working odd jobs, never really living up to her true potential or so my parents thought anyways.

Where did I grow up? That’s not really important right now. What is important is that you should know at least three things about me. The first being that my greatest fear is zombies. Yes, zombies. I have a fear of the living dead ever since I saw “Night of the Living Dead” at the age of six. Needless to say, every time I have ever been to a cemetery since has almost always ended with a major panic attack for fear that a corpse would come to life and either try and devour me alive or it would just start doing the “Thriller” dance.

The second thing that you should know about me is that I have been in love only once in my life. Who she is and when this was is irrelevant right now. She has no relation to the events which are about to occur. Let me repeat that again: she is not the reason for what I am about to do.

This brings me to the third and final thing that you must know: today is the day that I commit suicide.

Before it happens though, I have to be completely honest with you about something– I have always been afraid of heights. I’m not exactly sure why nor can I trace any event in my childhood that would lead me to this fear. My fear of heights includes being afraid of flying and being on any roller coaster at all. I even have trouble with being inside of a very tall building. This fear of heights and flying has lead me to live a very boring and sheltered life devoid of any kind of travel whatsoever. Its so bad that I once passed up a chance to run around Europe for a summer because the thought of spending more than an hour on the plane brought on a major panic attack. I have been to Six Flags only once in my entire life and whilst there I spent approximately one hour and forty-five minutes before leaving. In my defense however, my friends I left because we decided to go on the hottest day of the summer. Once at Knott’s Berry Farm I had a panic attack whilst riding “Silver Bullet.” I have never been back since that day when I was sixteen years old.

Why is my fear of heights so important you might ask? Well, what better way to conquer my greatest fear than through death? 

The fall will only take four seconds. In four seconds, 25 years worth of bullshit will be over. Is this really how I want to go out though? Well, it seems pretty ideal when you think about it. Through death, I will have conquered a fear that has paralyzed me my entire life. I doubt my body will ever be found. Just as well since I never really wanted a fancy burial anyways.

I’m actually gonna do it this time. I am gonna man up and fucking do it. After all, what have I got to lose? When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.

I just have to close my eyes and the four seconds will be over. Four seconds. That’s all it takes. Four seconds. One. Two. Three. Four…

They say that the brain has somewhere between six to twelve minutes of brain activity left after you’ve died. Those six minutes can seem like an eternity; an entire life lived in six to twelve minutes. Every one of us could be dead right now within that six to twelve minute span and what we are living right now is all just a dream; our lives are flashing before our eyes in six to twelve minutes. Think about that and keep in mind.

So there I was on the ledge ready to do it. Nothing was gonna stop me this time and then… my phone started vibrating. I nearly fell off the ledge. I tried to ignore it and focus on the task at hand, but of course it kept vibrating. I finally answered after five rings.  

“Hello?” I answered.

“Where are you?!” my mother asked hysterically.

“I’m kind of busy right now. Can I call you back?” I asked even though I had no intention whatsoever of calling her back. I must admit that I felt kind of bad that this would be the last we would ever speak and that my last words would be a lie.

“No. It’s important! Your sister… she… she’s dead.”

I looked at the ocean below me. The really fucked up part was that even after this revelation, I still thought about jumping.

“She killed herself…” my mother said sobbingly.

What’s even more fucked up was that I was actually pissed at my sister for doing it first!

As I was trying to quickly process this chain of events, the water looked so tempting; inviting even; almost calling out to me to go for a swim. How fucked up would it have been for a mother and father to lose both of their children on the same day? And both to suicides too! Could I really do that? I thought about what would happen were I to jump.

Scenario one involved me dying a quick and relatively painless death. My mother, torn apart by grief and despair over the loss of both her children (from suicides no less) would succumb to the grief after a long and tortuous battle with depression. She would die with the pain and knowledge that she had failed the two most important things in the world. My father on the other hand would become an embittered alcoholic who ended his days living alone and slowly drinking himself to death.

Scenario two involved me jumping, but not dying right away. Instead, I would jump right into the mouth of a shark. I die a very long and painful death as I am viciously torn apart by Jaws. But really, what are the odds of this happening? Well, knowing my luck, it would probably be pretty good. 

Finally, we have the worst case scenario– I jump and by some cosmic joke, I survive. However, the impact would cripple me for life. I would spend countless minutes and possibly even hours in pain while I float helplessly in the cool waters of the Pacific Ocean until someone finally sees and rescues me. After a lengthy coma, the doctors would tell me that I’ve become permanently crippled from the neck down. They would say that it’s a miracle that I was still alive when in reality I would know that it’s more of a giant “fuck you” from the universe; a fitting punishment for trying to defy fate, like a goddamn Greek Tragedy. This of course though is just a “worst case scenario.”

  Pros and cons of suicide. If only I wasn’t indecisive. In the amount of time that I stood here debating this, I probably could have jumped already. Remember: four seconds is all it takes. But unfortunately, dying today is not my fate. No, my cards have me dying some time later, although I don’t know that just yet.  





Why Kevin McCallister Is Really a Sociopath

If you’re like any normal red-blooded American then you probably watch “Home Alone” during the holiday season. I mean, it’s  essential Christmastime viewing along with the other classics like “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” (NOT THE FUCKING JIM CARREY VERSION GODDAMNIT), “It’s A Wonderful Life,” “A Muppet Christmas Carol,” “Love Actually,” “Die Hard,” “Lethal Weapon” and “Schindler’s List.” But unlike all of those care-free, light family films, “Home Alone” is actually very dark. In fact it’s pretty much a Christmas version of “A Clockwork Orange.”  But of course, we all assume that it’s merely a nice family film about a plucky and resourceful eight-year-old boy who defends his home against those wacky criminals known as “The Sticky Bandits.” Sorry, I mean “Wet Bandits.” But underneath all of the “comedy” lies a darker, more sinister story- the story of how Kevin McCallister becomes a sociopath.

Now, I’m sure you’re all familiar with the story but if you don’t know it (because you’re obviously a Communist) it’s about Kevin McCallister who is pretty much the Meg of his family- siblings don’t like him, relatives treat him like shit, parents ignore him and he’s tortured by his sleazy older brother named “Buzz.” Clearly, Kevin already has issues.

So once he’s left home alone he’s forced to fend for himself and at first it’s all fun and games: He runs around, eats junk food, jumps on the bed, watches violent movies, looks at porn, plays with his brother’s BB Gun, destroys his room, and lets loose a deadly and probably poisonous tarantula to wander around his house. You know? Normal things that all eight year olds would do if they were left home alone in what has got to be the safest neighborhood in the country. But like I said, this is the fun part. Kevin is being a kid. But things soon start to take a turn to the dark side.

It begins when he does the simple task of ordering a pizza. Instead of just simply answering the door and paying like a normal person, he plays a violent Scarface-like film up to full volume and pretends to be an angry gangster who starts shooting just to scare the shit outta the poor teenage delivery boy (who is probably working this shit job just to save up for a car or something) just so that no one finds out that he’s home alone. And while I’m on this subject, why didn’t the goddamn delivery boy call the cops after this shit happened?! He was just shot at for Christ’s sake! And no one investigates this! Really? Sigh…But I digress…

Anyways, so after this is when the “fun” really begins. The Wet Bandits have been robbing all of the houses in the neighborhood because apparently all of the families have gone on vacation. At the same time. The entire neighborhood. Everyone. They’re rich and it was the 90’s. Whatever. So they try to rob Kevin’s house. And instead of just calling the cops and saying “Yo, these two comically unrealistic thieves are gonna rob my house. Send some help. I am rich and white” he decides to booby trap the goddamn house. Why?  Because he’s a sociopath.

First, he shoots them point black with the BB Gun— one in the balls and the other in the head. I know it’s just a BB Gun, but still… who does that?! Sure, it was maybe a “warning” shot to let them know that he’s armed, but that’s still pretty messed up. And I’m sure shooting someone with a BB Gun point black will leave some pretty lasting damage. I don’t think Harry is ever gonna have kids. He was literally shot in the balls. But of course we laugh because… well, he literally got shot in the balls and lets fact it, that’s just funny. Moving on.

After finally entering the house, Marv gets hit in the head with an iron, has his socks stuck in tar and steps on what I’m pretty sure is a rusty nail. Now, they’re thieves so I’m fairly certain that this son of a bitch doesn’t have health insurance. So congratulations Kevin! You have just given poor Marv tetanus. The bastard’s gonna wake up the next day with lock jaw but whatever. And as for Harry, well he gets a second degree burn on his hand from touching a scorching hot door handle.. And that’s not cool either. That shit could get infected. He could literally lose the hand. I know these things. I’m certified in First Aid. But the “fun” doesn’t stop there because Kevin, in his state of pyromania, burns Harry’s head, which I’m sure also causes serious scalp and skull damage. But hey, fuck Harry. He’s a thief. Am I right?

But now they’re finally inside of the house, though not before poor Marv gets his feet jabbed with broken Christmas tree ornaments, probably causing even more infections, and Harry gets feathered. Kevin is now clearly just toying with them. You know, like how killers tend to toy with their victims.

But the “fun” doesn’t end there because once they’re inside, Kevin pelts them both in the face with full, yes full, paint cans. Now, I’m not a doctor (though I can say I am, but that wouldn’t be true), but I’m pretty sure that getting hit in the face with full paint cans can seriously kill someone. If not, then they should at least have some serious facial damage, not to mention being knocked unconscious for several hours. Does Kevin know this? Maybe. Maybe not. But good rule of thumb, don’t fucking hit people with full paint cans because you could kill them. And after that, he then decides to put the probably poisonous tarantula, which by the way has been wandering around the goddamn house all week and has got to be starving at this point, on poor Marv. And let’s be clear, Marv could be allergic to this goddamn thing. Kevin doesn’t know this! And I don’t think Marv has an EpiPen with him, but whatever because it’s “funny.”

So finally after mercilessly torturing them- I mean toying with them-  he finally decides to call the goddamn cops. They arrive just in the nick of time. So they get arrested and Kevin just smiles at them like Damien in The Omen. He’s reunited with his parents and we all laugh and cry because the movie is over. The end.

Except not really because Kevin is probably gonna grow up thinking that he can get away with murder because he’s rich and will probably become the next Patrick Bateman. And the only reason why he wasn’t charged with some kinda crime at the end of this “family film” is because he’s got a serious case of “Affluenza.”

Merry Christmas!