This all happens, presumably, because Russ has become such a big dong that he needs to rediscover his inner child. So Russ doesn't have a wife or a dog -- how bad can life be when you have an exceptionally cute English chick hanging all over you? Just how does this happen anyway, if Russ is such an ass?

Just like we're supposed to suspend our disbelief and accept Rusty's emergence from some Disney time warp, we're also supposed to assume that Amy can see into the future and envision a time where Russ is not an ass. Frankly, this just reinforces the idea that women enjoy being abused. In addition to sleeping with Russ, Amy also works for him, creating a serious conflict of interest that nobody seems to care about (thank you, President Clinton).

When I step into a preschool, I realize all at once why E. coli was invented, so you can imagine what a joy I had watching little Spencer Breslin exercise his acting prowess. It's pretty obvious that some amateur psychiatrist thought this whole story up so filmgoers would rush off to therapy to find ways to rediscover their inner child and make their lives better. What everybody fails to realize is the fun in being a mean person, and what great joy can be had in revealing to the pseudo-happy ignoramuses of the world the whirling cesspools that truly comprise their existence.