Stick your A-Fib up your...well, I think you can guess the rest, Big Pharma

If the condition that Pradaxa treats is so damned serious, why is it "commonly" reduced to the term "A-Fib?" Jesus Christ, is it a disease or a shortstop prospect for the New York Yankees? I know that if my doctor told me I had this condition that required the use of the word "bleeding" half a dozen times to explain it properly, I wouldn't want him to shorten it to "A-Fib." I mean, I'm glad you are so freaking hip, American Medical Association- but this IS my life you are talking about.

What's next? "Mrs Smith, your son was just admitted into the emergency room, he has a broken leg, or what we call B-Leg." Or how about "your husband has suffered a brain aneurysm, or BISM." Because if you are going to be sick or hurt, that shouldn't prevent us from being Hip, should it?

Second, doesn't Pradaxa sound like more of a trap than a benefit? Don't stop taking Pradaxa without your doctor's permission, as stopping may cause internal bleeding. Taking Pradaxa, by the way, may cause internal bleeding. So if you take this drug, you risk bleeding to death internally. And if you stop, you run the same risk. Ain't it great to grow old in the 21st century?

Finally, I like how the makers of this drug seem to realize that the side effects of their Miracle Drug are too scary to be explained by just one doctor- no, we need an entire phalanx of Caring Professionals to explain to us in soothing terms why this drug is really beneficial despite all this scary stuff that can happen to you if you take it. Don't believe the female doctor? Here's a male doctor telling you the same thing. Oh, and here's a fat old guy who can barely walk, but take our word for it, he's MUCH HAPPIER because he's taking Pradaxa. Or at least, he will be, until it kills him.

The FDA is doing a great job, isn't it? Every time I see one of these drug ads, with it's one or two lines of benefits followed by four paragraphs of warnings, all I can think is how ridiculous it is that we live under a system which allows drugs to be rushed to market and peddled by paid spokesmen and actual doctors alike as long as the ads come with long lists of disclaimers. So the moment one branch of Big Pharma manages to produce a drug which SEEMS to have SOME effect on dealing with a disease (and we are talking everything from dementia to heartburn) it's on the shelf at your local pharmacy, and never mind that it may cause all kinds of bad things to happen to sad, desperate, and above all Trusting people who are only trying to do what their doctors told them too (more and more often, because they told the doctor they saw this ad and were convinced to badger him for this drug.)

Wouldn't it make a lot more sense for these drug companies to be told to keep working on these new products until the risk of these truly horrific side effects was at least greatly decreased? Oh, but that slows down the money machine, doesn't it? Can't have that. So I guess all we can do is quietly suggest that maybe doctors go back to acting like doctors and not drug peddling middle men for the Pharmaceutical industry. And stop treating us like children by trying to give serious diseases "cool" names.

Hey, at least it's not Tee Set

Guess what, morons? You don't look stupid getting the words to "Rocket Man" wrong. Don't be ashamed because there's a line in the song you've spent your whole life mishearing.

You should be too busy being ashamed that you are even attempting to sing Elton John's Major Tom ripoff. Or any Elton John song at all. I will, however, give you credit and a tip of the hat for not subjecting us to some mangled version of the worst song ever written which is not called MacArthur Park or "sung" by Paper Lace, Sir Elton's treacly "tribute" to Princess Diana. God what an ear-bleeder.

Wow, what WOULDN'T this guy do for a Klondike bar?

The Hate is strong with this one.

It's as if the good people at Klondike suddenly noticed that in Commercial Land, Males who really can't bear to be with their wives/girlfriends are a time-honored tradition that they somehow managed to overlook in thirty years of advertising. Eliminating all subtlety, the ad agency hired by Klondike, given it's marching orders to catch up with the rest of the world, threw together this horrid thirty seconds of Stupid.

Ugly, fat, unshaven slob Hubby absolutely, positively cannot BEAR to listen to anything the woman he once apparently wanted to spend the rest of his life with has to say. To him, the voice of the woman who's first "I Love You" resulted in a rapid heartbeat now makes fingernails across a chalkboard sound like the most beautiful music ever created. Listening to her prattle on for more than FIVE SECONDS is pure agony for this guy, who judging from his waistline and posture clearly married only to have someone to wash his clothes, incubate his babies, and refill his beer glass so he won't risk missing a play during Monday Night Football. What, she wants to TALK too? Ugh, I think you just found the thorn in the rose of your "relationship," buddy! It speaks!

This is another one of those commercials that steps beyond the realm of Inoffensively Dumb and reaches Cruel, Mean-spirited, and just plain Sad. It's bad enough that the jerkwad who wrote this nasty pile of dung is probably married with kids and has no idea how awful it is. It's worse to think that Klondike believes it's just following the crowd by portraying men as such insufferably self-absorbed, distant, cold-hearted dicks. "Hey look, America- we get the whole Men Are Insensitive Assholes bit, too! So buy our product!" Ugh.

Oh, and Klondike? Making that product look like a kitchen sponge drenched in chocolate syrup? Not the best idea, either.

You're going to be here all day. Just Accept It.

Never mind the "just accept it, banking monkey" patronizing BS that flows through this God-Awful commercial. It's every bit as bad as Southwest's "Our Crappy Airline is So Much Different than the others, THEY cheat you out of every penny" ads.

In fact, never mind ANY ad for Banking, Airlines, Insurance, Cars or Beer which suggest that somehow their identical service or product is measurably "better" than all the others. Because it's all a crock. There's about as much light between Ally Bank and Bank of America as there is between the Democrats and the Republicans- not enough to illuminate a grain of rice. So Ally, Southwest Air, State Farm, Miller Lite- cut the crap, ok?

Instead of dealing with that entirely predictable, utterly dishonest theme, let's just stick with something simple- who among us has not been behind this guy at the ATM machine? Of course, it's usually something like the stupid knothead having not the slightest idea how to use the freaking machine, or not realizing that you can't WITHDRAW the money if you don't actually HAVE the money. This time, Our All Too Familiar Jerkwad is content to stand there holding up the entire line because he can't decide whether to pay a freaking three dollar fee to get his money. I mean, I know I've seen this guy more than once in my life. In fact, I see him everywhere- at the ATM machine, he can't figure out the Amazingly Complicated Buttons. At the theater, he suddenly can't remember which film he wanted to see, or that he needed to take his money out to pay for the ticket. At Giant Food, he insists on using the Do It Yourself aisle but can't find the barcode on the items he wants to purchase to save his life, and of course is buying nothing but fresh produce so he has to God Help Us Both find the proper code on the screen and (horrors) weigh his freaking bunch of parsley TODAY IF IT WOULD BE CONVENIENT. He's the Guy With No Clue But All The Time In The World, and if you know what you are doing and/or are in a hurry, that's just tough.

Thanks for giving this guy a job, Ally. I'll congratulate him the next time he's in line in front of me.

Robots, yes. Drunk Drivers? Not so much.

While stopped at an intersection in Barre, Vermont in July 2003, I was rather violently rear-ended by a drunk who hit me so hard that my car jumped about five feet, nearly hitting the police officer directing traffic.

I got out of my car and laid down on the sidewalk until the ambulance could arrive. At the hospital, another police officer informed me that the guy who hit me was driving under a suspended license and had no insurance (and was drunk at eight o'clock in the morning to boot.) Oh well- thank goodness I was covered with State Farm!!

Like a Good Neighbor, State Farm quickly cut me a check for the value of my totaled Honda. So far, so good. Then I had to go through three months of physical therapy- three sessions a week, scheduled around my class schedule- to get my back straightened out. No problem- I was covered for damage caused by Uninsured Motorists through State Farm!

All I had to do was hire an attorney and badger State Farm to cover my therapy costs. For two and a half years. Finally, we settled. And a year after the settlement, I got a very nice letter from State Farm explaining how that multi-billion dollar company was unable to get any money from the drunken loser who slammed into me almost four years previous- and therefore, they Much Regretted That They Would Be Unable To Refund My $500 Collision Deductible. Such Good Neighbors!

Now, of course, if my house had been attacked by a giant robot with one eye which shot laser beams, and if Said Robot had smashed my car with a giant iron claw, and if Aforementioned Robot of the First Part had then lifted me up in my chair and dropped me on to my car, injuring my back, I'm positive I would have been covered and all expenses would have been paid for, No Questions Asked. It was the unusual circumstances of my particular accident ( I mean, how often do people get hit by uninsured drunk drivers? I bet my case was the first!) which created the conflict between me, the Allegedly Insured, and State Farm.

Full disclosure- I'm still with State Farm, because they DID ultimately give me a pretty decent settlement and they STILL give me the best rates of any company out there (I do check from time to time- hey Geico, you are out of the ballpark by about $400 per year. Just thought I'd let you know.) But when I see commercials like this, they just remind me of how you managed to drag out paying for my therapy (it's not like I went to some BS clinic in Sweden to immerse myself in volcanic mud- it was in downtown Silver Spring for Chrissakes...) for several years instead of just being a Good Neighbor and cutting me a freaking check (you know, like I do for you guys every three months, plus annually for my renter's insurance.) I don't know, it just makes me wonder how you'd REALLY react if I was ever attacked by a robot. Why do I think I'd be really out of luck, despite the confident look on this victim's face?

Or maybe I should contact my local agent and just ask about robot insurance. Because didn't SNL tell us a long time ago that the Iron Ones would eventually be coming for all of us?

They don't make maturity like they used to

Apparently there's this "trilogy" of video games called "Gears of War," and this is the final "chapter," and based on some of the posts on YouTube, some "adults" are really, really bummed out about that. I mean, I assume that the posters who have been devotees of the "series" are adults, because these games are rated M for Violence, including Blood and Gore.

"M" stands for "Mature." Because I guess you have to be a Mature Adult to enjoy sitting on your fat and expanding ass playing this crap. And to be sad that the "fun" is coming to an end (as if there aren't already a dozen or more games that are just clones of this one- hey "gamers," it's not like there aren't going to be plenty of opportunities out there for you to pretend to be big strong soldiers blasting away at aliens from the comfort of your couches.)

If this is what it means to be Mature, I think I'd rather be Childish. There's more fresh air and sunshine in it, and it doesn't require electronics or waiting in line at Wal Mart.

The Next Crash Can't Come Fast Enough for Me

"If you think that hiring ugly people to stare into the camera with a smug, 'I'm richer and therefore better than you' look is a good way to convince people to use our investment service, Join Us."

"If you think that your money should be the most important thing in the life of a total stranger who is receiving a tiny commission to invest it, to the point of being able to call that person at 3 AM to get an update on how that block of Consolidated Hay stock is doing, Join Us."

"If you are so fucking obsessed with your tiny, In Constant Danger Of Vanishing No Matter What You Think You Overbearingly Self-Important Corporate Fascist Money-Worshippers portfolio that your entire self worth is wrapped up in that imaginary number you keep in your head which represents the fantasy dollar amount that would finally make you happy, Join Us."

"And if every other cult has turned you away, Join Us."

Seriously, I think a day of tree-hugging and communal organic farming would be so much better for my soul than what these miserable, sad, Mammon- adoring, grasping cretins are into. Hey dickweeds- it's MONEY. Even The Beatles, who eventually all become Billionaires, knew it Can't Buy You Love which is, after all, All You Need.

But please, continue wasting your "lives" worrying about your little pile of gold- sure worked for Silas Marner. Leave your pamphlets at the door- I'll give them a polite going-over, but I should let you know right now that I'm really not interested in converting to your faith. Because like most organized religions, it seems to turn it's true believers into judgmental, demanding, holier-than-thou assholes.