Jury unanimously rules in favor of enraged father who used controversial “Star Wars”-spoiler defense in the beating death of his 12-year-old son’s dickhead classmate

That is a news headline you may well be reading in the not-too-distant future, because I am so pissed off and upset right now that I barely know what else to do with myself. And because I have no rational and/or truly satisfying target at which to aim the massive amount of rage, sadness and disappointment boiling within me, I am going to channel it into this post with the hope that doing so might help me to process the situation and move on. (I don’t believe it will, but I’m going to give it a try anyway, because the alternative is to beat my son’s dickhead classmate to death … the reason for which almost certainly would result in my acquittal during the murder trial, but the doing of which would make life very unpleasant for me and my family.)

For a full year now, my children and I have intentionally, and with no small amount of effort and dedication, avoided viewing all of the “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” trailers, commercials, articles, etc. This has been no easy feat. To wit: when attending “Ant-Man” at the IMAX theater this past summer, my son and I knew the theater would be showing a “Star Wars” trailer prior to the movie, so we both brought earbuds, inserted them in our ears the moment we saw the “Lucasfilm” logo during the previews, cranked up some music, and sat there with our eyes closed until we were sure we had missed any and all “Star Wars” footage. (And, yes, I know I’m a lunatic raising a son who one day will lay on a therapist’s couch and talk about what a lunatic his father is, so there’s no need for you to point that out.)

While watching television in recent weeks, we have repeatedly pounced on the remote control while simultaneously turning our heads away from the TV and, during the interval between spotting the “Lucasfilm” logo and successfully engaging the “Mute” button, have drowned out the sound of the commercial by yelling something to the effect of “AH OHHH WHOAH WHOAH WHOAH BLAH BLAH BLAH I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THIS!” Every. Single. Time.

Ever since Disney announced plans to make “Star Wars: The Force Awakens,” my plan had been to pull the children out of school on the film’s opening day in order to guarantee our avoidance of any spoilers … but when tickets went on sale two months in advance, my calendar indicated that my daughter’s class would be holding its annual holiday recital on the day of the movie’s release, during which she would be performing with both the orchestra and the chorus. I knew I couldn’t pull her out of that commitment, so I instead bought tickets to a 10 a.m. showing on the film’s second day in theaters, which was yesterday.

(Adding insult to soon-to-be-revealed injury: On Thursday night, I learned that my daughter’s recital had at some point been rescheduled for tomorrow, but by that time, the opening-day showings of “Star Wars” had long since sold out, so we were forced to stick with Saturday. Had I known of this change far enough in advance, we could have attended the film on opening day … which makes what follows even more difficult for me to swallow.)

For over a year now, my son and I have counted down the months, weeks, days and, ultimately, hours until we would at last be watching a new “Star Wars” film together in a movie theater. Every morning this week, we awoke and greeted each other with proclamations of the number of days left, both of us giddy with excitement.

"Star Wars" excitement

We were a little excited.

When I returned home from work Friday evening, my son tearfully told me that some rotten, soulless, douchetastic little rat-fuck of a boy with whom he attends school had announced to my son with malicious intent less than 24 hours prior to our viewing of “Star Wars” what I shall refer to as “THE MOST MAJOR FUCKING SPOILER IN THE HISTORY OF CINEMA” … the details of which my son did not tell me, because he didn’t want to ruin the movie for me. And my heart broke, and its pieces fell into an all-consuming fire of unbridled rage and sadness that now has me wishing it was socially and legally acceptable for a 45-year-old man to inflict some kind of harm upon a sixth grader who quite probably deserves to have something really shitty happen to him. (And, no, I don’t really want to murder or physically harm a sixth-grade boy, but right now, I very much DO wish upon that little prick a degree of mental and emotional anguish commensurate with that which he caused my son.)

Yesterday, we saw “Star Wars,” and when “THE MOST MAJOR FUCKING SPOILER IN THE HISTORY OF CINEMA” happened, I was triply traumatized: once because HOLY FUCK I CAN’T BELIEVE “THE MOST MAJOR FUCKING SPOILER IN THE HISTORY OF CINEMA” JUST HAPPENED; twice because my 10-year-old daughter—whom, up to that point, had been holding my hand and gleefully telling me every so often that “The Force Awakens” was the greatest movie she had ever seen—was completely traumatized to the point of sobbing over “THE MOST MAJOR FUCKING SPOILER IN THE HISTORY OF CINEMA”; and thrice because I immediately knew that “THE MOST MAJOR FUCKING SPOILER IN THE HISTORY OF CINEMA” was what my son’s pathetic little fuck of a classmate had told him.

It has been 27 hours since we walked out of the movie theater, and I still feel emotionally raw from the aforementioned triple-pronged attack. For what it’s worth: I absolutely loved the movie … but I regret not taking the kids on Friday, and I am beyond upset that some wretched little fuckhead took away my son’s ability to fully enjoy this very special thing that he had been looking forward to for so long.

And I don’t feel any better about the incident for having written about it, because doing so doesn’t return to my son the latest slice of his joyful childhood innocence stolen from him by a frequently shitty world that I can not completely shield and protect him from (nor does it lessen my sense that I failed him by not taking him to see “Star Wars” on opening day) … but I still needed to vent, because, like I said: I don’t know what else to do with myself … so I did this. Which probably is wiser than murdering a sixth grader. So at least I’ve got that going for me.

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