Nothing says quality family time like ads. I mean—the fucking ads! You arrive, there are greetings exchanged and then everyone disburses to their digital vices. A primarily dry household that indulges in gluttonous savagery. A sad existence and I take part, longing to end my torment with a bullet to the head. The Glock is calling my name. Family get-together. What else is there to say? They’d char the bones of their vanquished foes. Then splinter the blackened remains to suckle the marrow from within.