So, here’s how my favorite Christmas movie of all time goes:

There’s this guy, whose wife moved across the country to take a job, and he’s flying out there for Christmas to visit her and see his kids. He stops past her office, and there’s some uncomfortable introductions and explanations, and then, through a fortuitous series of events, they choose love over material goods, rekindle their fire, make a new life-saving friend (who earns himself redemption), and live (for a little while at least) happily ever after.

Okay, so maybe the fortuitous series of events do include machine guns, explosions, bodies falling out of office buildings, two F.B.I. guys named Johnson (no relation), and a considerable amount of yippie-ki-yay, motherfuckers!

That’s right: Die Hard.

Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly family appropriate, but when you get past the film’s trappings, it’s about exactly what I said above: John McClane reunites (admittedly, only until Die Hard 3) with the wife from whom he is separated, they choose each other over the vast amounts of wealth Hans was attempting to steal, and Sgt. Al Powell finds redemption (of a sort) for the horrible incident in his own past. And Argyle?

Well let’s be honest: poor Argyle probably got fired for bringing back the limo beat to shit.

Lousy Christmas for him.

Well. And for this guy.