Unneccesary Dumbness; ten yards and loss of credibility

Southwest LOVES to pretend that every other major carrier treats it's customers unfairly by charging unnecessary bag fees. And I'm certainly not interested in defending the practice of charging $25 or more per checked bag, though the reaction some of these idiots have is far more annoying than the fee- I sure as hell would not appreciate being stuck behind some asshole who decided that he was going to hold up the whole line because he thought that he if he threw a big enough hissy-fit he might get the underpaid, overworked baggage monkey to waive the charge. Hey, don't want to pay the baggage fee, buddy? Then get your fucking elbow off the counter, get your ass out of line, and go find another airline, ok?

Meanwhile, however, I'd love bring a handful of these yellow flags to the airport the next time I fly and start throwing them at Southwest employees when

1. I arrive three hours before my flight, yet am handed a boarding pass which makes me wait until every business class passenger, elderly person, and fat woman with two red-headed screaming brats waddle on to the plane first, NEVER MIND that they'll still be standing in the aisle mysteriously unable to find their seats ten minutes after I've been allowed to board....

2. I dutifully check my suitcase, only to experience a delay when the scumbags with their massive carry-ons act surprised when they attempt to board and are told "sorry, that won't fit, we'll put a yellow tag on it and you can pick it up on the tarmac when we land." So....the "punishment" for not following the rules is valet service for your bags? I have to wait twenty minutes at the carousel for my bag to be manhandled off the plane and on to a truck, and finally deposited inside the airport, but the jackasses who ignored the "if your bag does not fit in this bin..." signs scoot off with their luggage in record time?

3. I ask for a Diet Coke and am given A) an eight-ounce can manufactured by El Cheapo Industries exclusively for Southwest or B) a four-ounce cup, half of which is filled with ice, to wash down my bag of nine peanuts,

4. Every flight I take up the East Coast or to Louisville, Kentucky is on a tiny tin coffin with wings. A seat in Fenway Park- or your average SmartCar- has more legroom.

5. When I fly to Vermont, I have to fly to New Hampshire, because Southwest won't acquire a hub closer to my parent's home in Barre than Manchester? Sure it's a cheap flight, and quick- about 90 minutes- but then it's a two and a half hour drive to my boyhood home.

(BTW, I love the Southwest Airlines commercials which show the "refs" trying to pull over another airline's plane for some "violation" concerning bag fees- in real life, TSA would mow them down with sniper fire in about twelve seconds, at a loss to absolutely nobody. I can't believe I put my life in the hands of this airline on a regular basis.)

Quick Quiz: What's missing in this picture?

1. "Having triplets is SUCH a blessing!" I'm sure. It used to be three sets of diapers to be changed several times a day (did you train them to "go" different times, so that this particular part of the "blessing" could be spread out?) "Not financially" groans Practical Dad (who of course has no idea how to fold laundry- he folds a shirt, and instantly hands it to his wife, who folds it again.) Had no idea how expensive sex could be, did you, Dad?

2. These guys have triplets- but it's the middle of the day (check out the sunshine streaming through the windows) and they are both home. Is it the weekend? If so, where are these triplets, anyway? Closet? At the park with the babysitter/dad's girlfriend?

3. Do these guys just let the laundry pile up and do it once a week, or what? I mean, there's three entire baskets of clothes there. That's several hours of washing, drying and folding (or what they nowadays call their "couples time.") Who does laundry all at once like this? If the dad works outside the house (that's certainly the vibe I get from Mom's "they're a blessing" and dad's "yeah I really love working sixty hours a week to keep these things in style" remarks) I'm sure he appreciates Mom's willingness to let the smelly mountains of cloth pile up until he could chip in.

4. Check out the folded laundry. Ugh, these are examples of the kind of dullards who think it's "cute" to dress triplets in matching costumes. Because after all, they aren't individual people- they're "the triplets," who probably wouldn't even have separate names if it wasn't for some stupid law.

(And JUST IN CASE we didn't hear that this Blessing Came In A Package of Three, there's three baskets with identical clothing in each one. Such a blessing!)

I guess I should be grateful that Mommy doesn't end the ad by snarking on Dad's folding ability. I do wonder what we are supposed to get out of this commercial- that triplets are a blessing (why? You wanted three kids, and through the miracle of fertility drugs you got that over with in one fell swoop?) That triplets generate a lot of laundry, which should be done all at once on a weekend when Dad's home to help (because why would the triplets want to be with Dad while he's out of work?) That Tide makes the blessing of having clothes-soiling offspring who happened to be born on the same day slightly more tolerable? What?

Where ARE these alleged Triplets??

Please disregard Nissan's "Do Not Attempt" disclaimer

This Commercial Sucks opens the New Year with a plaintive message to all you stupid, drunken, Cici's-haunting, Light beer-swilling, Man Card-holding, Real NFL Experience-providing, Forever App-downloading, Forever GPS-consulting and video streaming and gaming, shaving-once-a-week clueless morons who represent American Males in the eyes of our wonderful ad agencies:

Please DO attempt to push dune buggies up mountains of sand. I promise, it will end with hooting applause from every idiot lucky enough to witness your innate awesomeness.

Please DO save passenger jets from fatal crashes by catching the nose wheels in in your flatbed. I promise, you will be rewarded with cheers and chants of "USA! USA!", and NOT sniper fire from airport security and a year as a guest of the US Army in Cuba.

And please, PLEASE feel free to drive your new truck down the side of a snow-covered mountain. After all, that's why Nissan built it-- for those times when the dune buggy can handle the slope on it's own, and the plane can land without any assistance from you, Mr. Macho Hero in Waiting. And don't forget to do the barrel roll- that will assure you the "we're not worthy" chants and bows from the knuckle-dragging troglodytes watching from the base. Just check out this guy's "Look what I did" gesture at the conclusion of this rank little crumb of an ad. That could be you, if you just avoid reading. And how hard is that, really?

I look forward to your exploits in 2012, Mr. Blue Collar Superhero whose Japanese Truck makes the Batmobile look like a SmartCar. I've got my Bud Lite ready to toast your next adventure. But could you do me a small favor? If you could take out a few oblivious I-Phone users on the way down next time, it would be deeply appreciated.

Maker's Mark: What it is

I totally agree with the premise of this commercial: Purchasing Maker's Mark Bourbon is not about showing off. I would take it a step further however and suggest that it's not about appreciating that the corn squeezings are "made in super slow motion," because after all, the only thing we see being made in super slow motion is the wax seal.

No, what Maker's Mark whiskey is all about is getting seriously cranked in a very short period of time. It's about doing your best to forget the year that has just gone by- your ill-fated experimentation with Facebook, that person you thought you'd never see again who dropped back into your life, played soccer with your brain, expertly removed your heart and ate it right in front of you, then dropped right back out (probably for another decade or so, thanks for nothing btw.) It's about being able to forget who you are and where you are going (or not going) for a few hours, when it's Saturday night and you've got nowhere to be and nobody's going to be shaking you awake tomorrow, or caring if you wake up face down on the bedroom floor, half-strangled in the bedsheets because you spent the night fitfully tossing back and forth, drenched with sweat, with your stomach in knots, being haunted by the ghost of The One That Got Away.

It's about being able to take an exit from the Pain That Is The Highway of Life (feel free to use that, it's not trademarked like this whiskey) and pause at the Rest Stop of Forgetfulness (you won't be wanting that one) before the relentless demands of Time force you to return to the Jersey Turnpike of Reality (I never said I was a poet, dammit.)

It's certainly not about being classy, or having a good time with friends, or the slow-motion application of a wax seal. In the end, it's really not about anything at all except maybe dulling the ache for just a little while. And when you wake up with another kind of ache, you realize that you've just added to your credit line in the Bank of Hurt, and the only saving grace is that you are one day closer to the cure.

Oh, and that you aren't a Russian farmer, and have to go through all this with vodka.

And once again, we'll let AT&T's war on society wrap up the year

It just wouldn't seem right if the last post of the year did not have as it's subject "cell phones and the royal assholes they turn us into," would it?

Here's a guy out to dinner at what looks like a nice restaurant (it sure doesn't have a Golden Corral feel-where's the chocolate waterfall? And it's not a Cici's- no sign of cheesy deliciousity here.) His date is aware that there's a football game on- the very first time he glances down, she asks if he's checking it.

(There's clearly a back story here- maybe they had a bit of an argument about going out this particular night. She wanted to get out of the house and have a romantic dinner. He wanted to stay home and squeeze in sex during halftime. She "won" the argument, this time, but she knows what that's worth when it comes to this selfish, self-absorbed dick...)

Naturally (and to the delight of the YouTube chimps, who find a way to laugh and applaud pretty much everything they see on the Big Shiny Box, when they aren't obsessing over the background music) the Guy plays Injured Party, throwing it back to his date, suggesting that she must think he's some kind of wizard if she believes he can check the game from their table. "What am I, some kind of 'Summoner,' and I can just 'Summon' stats on my phone?" Because his girlfriend has been in a box since 1995, and because she's kind of sad and desperate, she buys this, until...

Being a Guy On Television, this Jackass simply cannot restrain himself from being an absolute moron, audibly responding to what he sees on his phone even as his girlfriend expresses concern about their relationship. Yep, we've seen this show before, haven't we? Be it Beer, McRib Sandwiches, or Football, the hold Stuff has on guys is far more powerful than that of the clingy, sensitive, serious woman, who after all will Still Be There at Halftime. So go ahead and be a cruel, insufferable jerk, buddy- she isn't going anywhere. This is Television, and on television women may be the brainy, well-dressed, organized, sensitive and sensible ones, but they have a fatal weakness the guys do not have- they simply MUST be in a relationship, even if it's with pigs like this.

You just KNOW that this evening ends with Girlfriend sitting there at the table, arms crossed, with a bitter, resigned look on her face, while the other males at the restaurant gather around the guy and watch the game on his phone, occasionally hooting with delight. If she's really pissed, he'll drop by Kay Jewelers this weekend and pick her up a chunk of rocks on a string. That will make everything better.

And that's it for Year Three of my blog- I can't believe that when I started this, I thought I'd run out of ads to mock after a few weeks. I apologize, Ad Agencies of America, for my lack of faith. See you in 2012!

Hey, Golden Corral: Put Lipstick on a pig, and it's still a pig!

Ok, I'm going to be a total elitist snob in this post. I can just imagine this stupid "chocolate waterfall" becoming the talk of neighborhoods populated with the kind of rubes who think that Golden Corral is the place you go for "special" occasions like Bowling League night or to celebrate winning the Horseshoe tourney (for mom's birthday, it's Denny's. For weddings, it's Olive Garden or Sizzler.) If I close my eyes I can SEE the sweatpants and fuzzy sweaters brigade ogling all the yummy steam vats full of fried chicken and shrimp, cube steaks and gravy, mac and cheese, etc that hold out the promise of maybe 30 minutes or so of shameless gorging.

Here's what else I can see- a line of disgusting, sweaty, sticky-fingered barely-bipeds poking pretty much everything imaginable into this chocolate dust-and-grease magnet. French fries. Chicken wings. Aforementioned sticky fingers. "Looky, everythin' tastes better when it's got chocolate on it, am I right or am I right? Strawberries? Ain't they related to them there fruit things? Hey, if we wanted healthy food, what would we be doin' at Golden Corral?"

Putting a chocolate fountain in a Golden Corral is kind of like offering champagne and caviar at a baseball game. It's like shopping for fine jewelry at a Dollar Store- at first glance it might look high-class, but then you remember where you are and think "wait, something is really, really wrong here..." (I mean, what's next- a waiter walking around with a giant pepper shaker at Cici's?)

Of course, this is exactly the thought that should be going through your mind if you find yourself at the Golden Corral in the first place. Then you should be asking "am I really this sad? Do I really need to be eating this crap? Do I really want to be associated with these people? (The "It made my jaw DROP" woman just made my day. Not to mention the guy explaining "I love chocolate, have since I was a kid." Wow, awesome insight coming from a guy who I PROMISE you does not take the feed store cap off during his "meal.")

Do I really think it's super-awesome that there's this liquid chocolate, and super-funny that Uncle Charlie just took a break from scooping meatloaf on to his plate to roll an ear of corn through it?"

Oh, and BTW- you tell me what is more disturbing here- that Golden Corral felt it was necessary to put up a huge sign which reads "Do Not Put Hands In Fountain," or that more than a dozen people decided to whip out their cell phones, capture this thing on video, and post it to YouTube?

This guy has a television show, and I can't average more than 400 hits a day?

Life is so unfair.

Here's an barely literate moron who's claim to fame is his refusal to admit wrong after using a false claim of racial attack to get himself on television almost thirty years ago. After a couple of decades of camera-mugging, he made a run for the Democratic Party's nomination for President which the word "quixotic" does not really begin to describe, doing his best to ruin each debate he was inexplicably invited to with his bizarre rants and disconnected, broken word salads.

Then Keith Olbermann and Cenck Uyger made the mistake of being Progressive instead of Establishment Democrats and were shown the door by MSNBC. That created room for faux Progressive "Leftists" (yeah, right) like Lawrence O'Donnell and this worthless bag of wind. So we get gems like this commercial, in which Reverend Al sputters something about blueberry pie ( I think; I don't speak Sharptonese.)

Anyway, this is all really pointless and stupid and irritating because we are reminded that this pathetic snake oil salesman has somehow managed to land a highly-paid television gig in which he is promoted as a serious political commentator. As far as I'm concerned, this is like asking Dennis Miller to grade the State of the Union Address or Rush Limbaugh to call plays on Monday Night Football- it just doesn't work, because the speaker can't beg, borrow or steal an ounce of credibility.

"They were ones that were eatin' the pie!" And you were the one giving me the migraine. I think I'd rather hear that BIG BIG BIG Smart Car commercial 45 times an hour (easily accomplished by watching Olbermann or Uyger on Current TV) than spend five minutes watching this blowhard. Hey MSNBC, there's real talent out there- maybe the next time there's a slot open, you might actually try to find some of it? Because this is just one small step away from giving Mark Furman a set and an early evening time slot.