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Die Hard is a Christmas movie.

John McClain is a Santa Claus figure. "Clain" -- "Claus." Think about it. McClain's near-magical ability to get around a high-rise office building has eerie parallels to Santa's ability to fly around the world. Hans Gruber is the anti-Santa Claus, the Krampus or Grinch if you will, who wants to take people's presents (or lives) away. In this case, of course, the Grinch doesn't have a change of heart, but falls to his death from a tall building, but that's a detail. The friendly cop is an angel figure, like Clarence in It's a Wonderful Life.

At the end of the movie all the debris and paper are falling from the air, obviously intended as a metaphor for snow. Nakatomi Plaza is a Christmas tree symbol, with obvious lighting problems. The cops and FBI agents outside the building represent skeptics who don't believe in Santa but are proved wrong. The hostages inside the building are a metaphor for children who need to be shown that the gift of love -- i.e., being saved from killer terrorist thieves--is more important than presents-- i.e., Christmas company bonuses.

At the end the good people are reunited and everyone celebrates and the message is that love and togetherness, not presents, are what matter.

When Hans Gruber reads, "Ho ho ho" off a dead guy's chest, that seals it for me.
Home Alone is a Die Hard remake. Kevin McCallister as John McClain, the wet bandits as Hans Gruber and his goons.
 
Have him stand in front of a full length mirror, admiring how big his junk looks in his new jockstrap.
That's the only way.

He turns to admire the size from different angles, but ends up lamenting how his balls are sagging a bit. Then he pulls the skin taut as he considers scrotoplasty to fend off the signs of aging. Those balls made two kids, though, so he should be proud of the sag.
 
That's the only way.

He turns to admire the size from different angles, but ends up lamenting how his balls are sagging a bit. Then he pulls the skin taut as he considers scrotoplasty to fend off the signs of aging. Those balls made two kids*, though, so he should be proud of the sag.
*that he’s admitted to.
 
That's the only way.

He turns to admire the size from different angles, but ends up lamenting how his balls are sagging a bit. Then he pulls the skin taut as he considers scrotoplasty to fend off the signs of aging. Those balls made two kids, though, so he should be proud of the sag.

Remind me never to read a Lit story that uses "scrotoplasty" as a tag.
 
Damn it, I saw the name of this thread and I got really excited to share my controversial hot take on how useless Colby Jack cheese is. It was a good post, too. But okay, fine, I'll share a hot take on stories, I guess.

I dread writing blowjob scenes. Other writers can make them interesting. I can't. Or at least, they don't feel that way. There are only so many ways you can write "he stuffed his wedding tackle into her bait shop entrance number one" before you get bored as fuck with them. Blowjobs in real life? God yes. Having to write them? God no.
 
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That's the only way.

He turns to admire the size from different angles, but ends up lamenting how his balls are sagging a bit. Then he pulls the skin taut as he considers scrotoplasty to fend off the signs of aging. Those balls made two kids, though, so he should be proud of the sag.
A wistful smile drifts across his face as he recalls his carefree younger days when they bounced freely, resplendent in their scrotum pasties. He'd wowed housewives, fashion execs, even a First Lady with his Newton's Cradle impression. His "Scrote to Scrote" tour had made the National Enquirer. I had it all wrong, he thought. You don't just wake up one morning and decide to trade all that for Marge, a Volvo SUV, and little Bobson and Melindabell. It creeps up on you so stealthily you don't even notice until it's done.
 
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