Where's the Gunbarrel Opening??

What is it about Virgin Airline Commercials that makes me think that they should be followed by ninety minutes of Daniel Craig shooting at bad guys?

And what is it about Virgin Airline Commercials that just screams "you can't afford this, not that we fly to any place you can afford to visit, anyway?" In fact, what is it about Virgin Airline Commercials that tells me "look, these ads are aimed for you about as much as Lexus and BDO ads are?"

And why do I expect that this would make a lot more sense if I was drunk or high while watching it? Ice Cream, Shrimp and Martinis? Doesn't really seem conducive to a good night's sleep...

I mean, this is just weird. And I kind of suspect that that is the joke. Virgin Airlines has a lot of money for it's ad campaign. It doesn't have to do cheap crap like Southwest's horrid "Baggage Police" series. It can afford cool graphics and hot women- and since we are apparently never going to see another James Bond film, it can lift ideas from the opening credits of that series, too. I do wish this didn't remind me so much of Sheryl Crow's hideous title song for the equally hideous
"Tomorrow Never Dies"- ugh.

Just one request, Virgin Airlines: If you want to take this to the next level, ask Timothy Dalton to make a guest appearance in your next commercial. Connery is retired, Craig is ok but probably too busy- and I'm trying hard to forget that Lazenby, Moore or Brosnan ever played the character.

Because nothing says "excitement" like an Oil Change

Know what they do at Jiffy Lube? They CLEAN!! (Wow!)

They CHECK! (What does this mean, exactly? I mean, how much does it cost to have someone "check" your fluid levels? How helpless are we?)

They INSPECT! (How is this different from CHECKING?)

Oh, and they sell you on the idea that you really need to have your oil changed every three thousand miles! And your tires rotated every time you come in! And your radiator flushed constantly!

And then they try to convince you that you need overpriced windshield wipers! And synthetic oil! And a heating and cooling system adjustment! And a whole lot of other unnecessary crap you can get talked into because you don't know one damn thing about cars!

And if you're REALLY ignorant, once you've emptied your wallet into the coffers of your local Jiffy Lube, you can hit the nearest Starbucks to blather on and on about how thrilled you are at how it only took an hour or so to get an oil change, plus a few little "extras" that added only 500% or so to the cost!

Just do me a favor, ok? If you do decide to head to Starbucks to share your amazing story, keep in mind that there are people in line behind you who aren't as enthralled with the Saga of The Easily Lead as you might think. And the faster you finish sharing, the faster they can proceed to give their ten-minute order to the "Barista" (snigger) for that Venti Carmel Orange Latte with four creams and two and a half sugars, extra whipped topping and a shot of espresso.

Just keep the shift knob, like the guy who loves his Subaru, you idiot!

Off-camera, the guy who makes up the center of this manipulative nonsense explains to his kid that their annual trip to Disneyland is off- for the next five years- because this ancient truck happened to be in the background of a photo of the truck owner and grampa. I'm sure the kid- who, if he's like every other little boy on the planet probably experienced a few seconds of excitement over the prospect of daddy getting a new truck to replace the ancient eyesore he was being dropped off at school in every day to the delight of his friends- understands perfectly.

I'm sure Mommy also understands why Daddy can't just say goodbye to the rust on wheels which never fails to attract rolled eyes from the neighbors, followed by patented "what can I do, I thought for sure he'd dump this piece of crap right after Johnny was born" shoulder shrug from Mom. Actually, judging from what we see here, it appears that Mommy has precious little say in how the family money is spent. Obsessed-with-the-fucking-truck Daddy chose well when picking the mother of his child, didn't he?

I'm sure this guy is also State Farm's favorite customer EVER. No matter how badly beat up Daddy's Ride gets in an accident, State Farm is there thrilled to death that this guy is NOT interested in a check to cover the Kelly Blue Book value and get him on his way to another vehicle. Nope, Daddy is just going to keep pulling out that check book, determined to keep what apparently is the only valid symbol of his relationship with his (let's assume deceased) father burning gas and oil. No matter what the cost, dammit!!

I guess Mommy and Johnny should be thankful it wasn't an Outhouse in the background of Daddy's photo. I can just see this guy refusing to have indoor plumbing installed because it would mar the memory of his childhood. Weird.

Now THAT'S Sarcasm!

Wait...the woman "presenting" Pillsbury Crescent Dogs (we of the great unwashed refer to them as "Pigs in a Blanket," and remember thinking that they were fun to eat- when we were around nine years old) at what appears to be an otherwise rather high-class function doesn't REALLY think the "impressive" comment by one of her guests was sincere, does she??

And does anyone else think that the last step to preparing and presenting "Pillsbury Crescent Dogs" at a party in which everyone is dressed to the nines* should really be to slap oneself on the forehead and mutter "oh jesus, what was I thinking?" before dumping the tray of junk into the nearest garbage disposal?

Come to think of it, it's hard for me to imagine an occasion where serving Pillsbury Crescent Dogs is at all appropriate. Let's see- when the only other option is that half-bag of frozen pizza rolls? When the neighbors you absolutely can't stand just rudely stopped in for an unannounced visit to discuss their plans to build a 7-11 franchise where their garage currently sits? When your husband- who PROMISED to make dinner because you had to work a double shift and it was his day off- reneged, and when you came home you found him sitting at the kitchen table, napkin tucked under his chin, with a fork in his hand?

Maybe. But a swanky holiday party? Please. Hey obtuse lady- when your guest said "Impressive," she was making fun of you. And when, for the next several weeks, you hear your friends muttering about those Pillsbury Crescent Dogs you served at your party, they aren't marveling at your inventiveness.** Get a clue. And a recipe book. And a Class Transplant.

*Upon further review, I see a guy in the background wearing an untucked, short-sleeved shirt. But let's be fair- these days, that's "dressed to the nines" for a twentysomething American male.

**And when they were raving at your Oreos and Whipped Cream Hors d'ouevres? Same thing.

At least this one isn't being narrated by Chris Berman

It's September, which means three things:

1. When I drive to school, I will have to maneuver around the SAHMs waiting at the bus stops with their kids as they give me dirty looks for committing the unpardonable sin of driving through THEIR neighborhood while trying to get to work,

2. Lee Corso will be back for another year of "College Gameday" on ESPN, spending each and every Saturday drooling uncontrollably over the athletic prowess of men one-fourth his age, and

3. Applebee's will be back with another stupid series of commercials featuring it's customers acting like morons in response to the sights, smells and sounds of cheap, fatty food.

In this particular ad, people with no taste buds, small entertainment budgets and idiotic friends are distracted away from their witless, pointless conversations by the roar of sizzling food ( I mean, how incredibly loud must that steak be sizzling for one woman to interrupt her engrossing "and then she said to the guy..." story? I sure hope she can remember where she left off when the plate has been moved out of earshot, or cooled down a bit!) I must say, except for the obvious exaggeration used here (no one believes that the steaks really emit deafening sizzling noises like this, right?) this is a reasonably honest commercial. I mean, there's no claim that anything being shown actually tastes good, just that it comes out of the kitchen sizzling in it's own greases. And just as Slim Fast is supposed to be "served very cold," perhaps the idea is that anything can be made palatable if it's too hot to taste?

I half expected someone to note that the food is way too quiet at The Olive Garden- I mean, nothing says "fun" like REALLY LOUD FOOD, right? Right?

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to watching Corso go into a haze while marveling at the athleticism of a guy young enough to be his great-grandson. Ugh, could you please just retire already?

I think it's the unjustifiable self-congratulation that really ticks me off here

"The dinner table is where I learned how to be responsible."

The dinner table is where you learned that it was a good idea to poison your family with cheap fat, salt and cholesterol-laden crud just because it could be prepared in a single frying pan inside of ten minutes? Really?

"Teachin' em right from wrong...it's my job!" Well, you are doing it very badly, lady. Here's some help: Teaching growing kids that mixing a package of chemicals to ground beef and elbow macaroni is a good way to perform the "work' that is supposed to go into making dinner is Wrong. When Mommy does this, she isn't doing her Job. She's taking what's called a Shortcut. And judging from the size of this house, she's not doing it out of economic necessity. She's doing it because her Other job- the one that pays her in money rather than fat, sick, malnourished kids- is more important than that Teaching Them Right from Wrong stuff.

"I used to be a track star, and I was fast...." Why do I suspect you weren't raised on Hamburger Helper, Mommy? And why do I strongly suspect that your kids won't be winning any track medals in the near or distant future?

By the way, what year is this again? Both "parents" in this commercial work outside the home. So why is it Mommy's responsibility- and ONLY Mommy's responsibility- to get "dinner" (using the term very loosely here) on the table? Shouldn't that be the job of the first adult to get home each evening, or, if they come home together, a job that's shared between them?

And don't tell me that Daddy isn't doing the cooking because Mommy's just so darned good at it. Because this....this is just wrong.

Here's where you can put your radar, "Dude"

Ok, so the newest "important" innovation offered by the Dodge Durango is radar. It's installed in the front grille, and it can detect how close you are to the nearest car. And it communicates with the Cruise Control system, so I guess it automatically adjusts the distance to keep you safe. Or something.

"In this competitive world," our favorite unseen monotone self-satisfied Dodge spokesperson tells us, being able to tell people 'hey dude, my car has radar' is a "game changer."

And this is where the commercial loses me. First, what's the "competition?" Who am I competing with when I hit the road in my 2003 Honda Civic? What am I competing FOR? Is the narrator actually telling us that being able to tell others that "my car has radar" is going to get me-- what? Girls? Better parking spaces? That promotion? Survival? What? I mean, help me out here, please.

"The SUV is back." Oh, gee, that's great news. Hey Dodge, here's one person who never missed them. Last time I checked, gas prices were still hovering at just under four bucks a gallon. Do you REALLY think that radar-controlled cruise control, and not decent gas mileage, is what it'll take to get us back into the showrooms?

One more thing. I don't believe for one minute that innovations like radar in the freaking grille, rear-view mirror cameras, or cruise control do anything to make the drivers of these vehicles "safer." In fact, I suspect that at some point someone will issue a white paper revealing that all these "safety features" really accomplish is the creation of a false sense of security, not to mention providing a license to drive distracted. After all, the car is doing all the driving, right?

Maybe the narrator DOES mean to tell us that driving IS a contest for survival. It's me and my radar-free, cruise control-deficient, hands-on radio Honda Civic v. the guy in the Durango who has been told that he's basically just a passenger and should feel free to adjust the seat temperature and yak away on his cell phone, the car will let him know it's getting too close to me. Considering the size of those things, I don't like my odds.

Oh, and "dude?" Really?