Dave, Rob, and Kurt settle into their studio chairs like a trio of over-caffeinated elves, ready to unwrap the 1990 holiday juggernaut that is Home Alone. Their conversation whirls through booby-trap brilliance, John Williams magic, and the curious physics of paint cans that apparently double as guided missiles. Each host brings a different flavor to the sleigh ride: Dave with his delighted forensic breakdown of Kevin’s gadgetry, Rob with his gleeful appreciation for Daniel Stern’s operatic screams, and Kurt chiming in like a cinematic chimney sweep, sweeping up every stray detail of Chicago suburbia in December Before long, the studio hums like a blinking string of lights as the three volley memories from childhood Christmases, those early encounters with a movie that felt equal parts cartoon and cozy hearth. They marvel at how a simple tale of a forgotten kid guarding his kingdom became a perennial beacon in the winter constellation. Even now, as adults flanked by microphones instead of stockings, the film hits them with the same peppermint-snap energy: fast, funny, a little chaotic, and glowing with the warm certainty that, in the end, everyone finds their way home