As my Father-in-Law used to remind me, "Pigs won't eat it"

So you've gotten all the credentials you'll ever need to keep a job with "the company" for twenty years.  And your hair has grown thin and gray, and your eyes dim.  You look back upon your life, and you see the accumulation of money as the standard by which your success will be measured.

Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring.  What is your life?  For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.*

Oh, I suppose your money-obsessed corpse will be dressed up in a nicer suit and displayed in a flashier casket and handled by a more prestigious funeral home and buried under a more impressive block of marble.  Do you really think you'll lay more comfortably in your opulent little box?  Or maybe you think that in your final moments of life, you'll be grateful for all the hours you put into trying to squeeze every dollar out of it.

I bet you never even considered this little nugget of advice:

Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven....for where your treasure is, there your heart will be
also.**

Naw, I'm sure you were too busy blathering away with your Money Managers, sweating over every quarter-point and every dime.  Hope you enjoyed yourself.  Doesn't sound that much fun to me.  Oh, but you don't know me.  Let me introduce myself- I'm the guy who is going to die someday, just like you.  I won't leave a pile of gold, and I'm sure as hell not going to be placed under a monument to myself and my ego.  I'm going to be scattered to the wind while you wait to be eaten by worms.  What do we have in common?  Like I said, we are both going to be dead someday.

And that's about it.  I don't care about money, except that for it's use as a way to bring a few moments of happiness to someone else.  Maybe I'll get lucky and die rich.  More likely I'll die poor.  You seem to see a big difference.  I don't see any, except that I'm not spending five minutes a day worrying about my money.  As long as I have enough to buy someone a bagel and someone else a bag of candy now and then, I have more than enough.

And you?  All your money won't another minute buy.***

*James 4:14

**Matthew 6:19-21

***Kansas

Mixing Sauces? That's the least of your problems, lady

Because really- there is so much more to focus on here.

How about, "hey, I suddenly realized that I'm a very cute girl who has been spending every Sunday afternoon with an ugly, unshaven slob with a stupid face and no table manners.  I can do SO MUCH BETTER than you."

Or how about "I'm getting really sick of just sitting here, decorating a table at this dive, watching you stuff your blank, moron face with junk.  Why I am here, besides the fact that I help you show well for your equally worthless friends?"

Or "why do you always have to act as if you have not eaten for three days, or that if you don't clean out the basket of wings inside of three minutes, it will be taken from you?  Is there something in your childhood you'd like to talk about (to someone who cares- not me?")

Or maybe "is it really necessary for you to consume three beers per glass while chomping down these wings?  Just once, I'd like you to be the designated driver so I can have a beer.  Is that a possibility for the near future?"

Or hey- if you really want to focus on the whole mixing-sauces  thing- "I'm just curious- did it ever even occur to your disgustingly self-centered brain that I might like to use some of the sauce before you slopped it all over the table, not to mention considering that I might not want to eat sauce that has your saliva mixed it in, you ridiculous, revolting overgrown child?"

It will do you good, you spoiled fat doofus

I love to take very long walks.  It's my favorite form of exercise.  It helps me unwind and unpack my thoughts.  It's a good time to re-evaluate my life, and then pull out my XM radio and listen to music until I forget all the things that popped into my brain when I made the mistake of re-evaluating my life.

My record for a single, one-day walk- set last month- is 25 miles.  I hope to break that this spring by walking the Mount Vernon Trail in Virginia.  Get it?  I love walking.

Anyway, I figured out a while back that I live only 4.5 miles from my school, and only 1.5 miles from a Metrorail station which will take me to that school in about nine minutes.  And yet, I was paying through the nose for gas and insurance and upkeep for a car I simply didn't need.  So a month ago tomorrow, I sold my car and I've been a happy hiker (and, when it's dark or rainy, a consumer of mass transit) ever since.  Haven't regretted my decision at all.  Not even once.  Not even for a moment.

So this commercial really irritates me.  Hey idiot- I understand that when you are used to dropping your lard-infused butt into a seat and rolling to work and golf and everywhere else, suddenly being inconvenienced can be kind of a pain.  But I think it's kind of sad that you aren't taking this opportunity to re-evaluate YOUR life.  If you weren't so obsessed with the idea that you MUST have your own wheels and you MUST drive everywhere, you might do a little research and notice exactly how far things are away from your little suburban palace.  I bet you'd find that many of your favorite haunts are really not that far from your house.  Maybe you could walk to work, at least sometimes.  Failing that, I bet there are transit buses available.  You could at least find out.  I promise you that if I'm right, you'd save a heck of a lot of money.  And your daughter would be able to keep her own car.

And who knows?  Maybe you'd figure out that owning a car is really overrated.  Maybe you'd drop some weight and find that you enjoy moving around on your own power.  Maybe you'd discover that you don't really miss $3.80 gasoline and insurance bills and flat tires and traffic jams.

Just a few thoughts from someone who knew he wouldn't miss his car, and wonder why so many people are convinced that they can't live without one.  And oh, BTW- if driving a pink car shamed you so, maybe you could have just skipped your little golf outing.  Or asked one of your friends for a freaking ride.  I mean, jeesh.

I was going to make a pun about pork, but I decided that would be a bit too much

The Family Budget Act.

Because Golden Corral believes that the people who can't afford the Olive Garden but are really too wealthy to be seen with their entire families ordering from the McDonalds Dollar Menu have a god-given right to all the fried junk and cheap meat and fiber-and-nutrient-deficient warm mush they can shove down their cake holes in one sitting.

In August of 2011 I actually dropped by Glenn Beck's "Restoring Honor" rally on the National Mall  (curiosity may not actually kill the cat, but it sure can kill an otherwise perfectly good afternoon.)  When I saw the thousands of old, fat, pasty-white idiots sprawled like toads on their straining beach chairs listening (with their mouths) to their favorite Tea Party Prophet, I should have realized that the Family Budget Act was not far from becoming written in the books of the Law.  I mean, the deficit is a disgrace and a crime (and has been since January 20, 2009) and the Kenyan in the White House is a SocialistMarxistMuslimBlack-
LiberationChurch Fascist with a fake birth certificate, but what they really wanted to know was where could they go after the speech to get a trough of orange mac'n cheese and a handful of cotton candy?

I'm pretty sure that when Obama signed this bill, he cut the legs right out from under his opposition and assured his re-election.  "Hey, look- not only am I not including preventative care as part of health reform, but I'm assuring a regular supply of heart patients for the next generation of doctors!"

And thanks to the Affordable Care Act, being a regular at Golden Corral can no longer be counted as a Pre-Existing Condition.

His next question for Google: "How Do I Start A Conversation With An Actual Human Being?"

I guess this commercial would be kind of cute except that

1.  I wonder why this kid is being raised by an electronic box.  When I needed advice, I knew I could ask friends, my parents and grandparents, a librarian, a teacher, or any number of other people in my life.  At no point do we see this kid consult any human beings for help.  In fact, the only evidence we see that this kid even HAS parents is a text from his mother and a quick shot of her gently putting away his security blanket----errr, cell phone.

2.  If kids at this school are free to carry around their fully-connected devices from class to class, my guess is that this particular boy is worried over nothing, because nobody is listening to him.

3.  Times certainly have changed.  When I was a kid, cute girls didn't act like they wanted to jump boys just because they were smart and articulate.  Damn it.

4.  At the conclusion of this ad, the vicious cycle of the kid's life continues.  He has another problem, so it's back to consulting the Google God That Knows All.   Sorry, but this is pretty damned depressing.

It's Just Lunch, and not ammunition for your alleged friends to use against you

Yes, I suppose that if you find yourself humiliated by your brutally cruel coworkers, who have absolutely nothing better to do while on the clock than to Google your name and then mock your online date profile, you might dump the idea of online dating and try "It's Just Lunch."

You might also consider a visit to Human Resources, where you could file a harassment complaint against the asshole choads who apparently never got their brains out of High School and think it's perfectly ok to goad and bully and shame someone into making adjustments in their personal life.

You might also consider dropping by the boss's office to ask why your coworkers have so much free time that they can just blow off their own duties in order to stalk you online.  Pretty sure there are at least a few paragraphs in the employee manual covering garbage like this.

If all else fails, you might just punch the living snot out of the smarmy dickweeds who have the mistaken idea that they have the right to barge in and piss all over your life without expecting any consequences at all.  After all, if they think that the kind of witless, cruel needling they engaged in on the playground is appropriate for a workplace setting (or adulthood in general,) surely they must concede that bloody noses are also part of the package.

I do appreciate the "South of Buffalo" disclaimer

Ok, here's the plan:

YOU!  Get out there and warm up the car!  Don't forget to adjust the seats for more legroom; there's nothing worse than trying to do this on the way BACK from Wild Wings, when we are all fat and sweaty and drunk and can barely breathe because we've spent the entire day jamming fat down our throats!

YOU!  Get there early and reserve the table closest to the big screen!

YOU! Order up the massive cheeseburgers with everything!

YOU! Make sure the baskets of wings keep coming to give us something to nibble on while waiting for the cheeseburgers!

YOU! Tell the waitress to keep the pitchers coming; the best way to assure that the food tastes good and that we keep ordering it long after we are full is to let us get a good beer buzz going!

YOU! Make sure you've got 911 on your speed dial!

YOU!  Interrupt anyone who tries to talk about anything other than the game on the screen over the course of the afternoon.  ESPECIALLY if they mention family, friends, or their jobs.  In fact, shut up ANYBODY who says ANYTHING that is not an order for more food or a high-volume, football knowledge-deficient comment concerning the game containing at least one curse word!

YOU! Suppress any desire to even think for one minute about how incredibly shallow and sad it is that we feel the need  to spend every damn Sunday afternoon filling ourselves with crap by rooting on a crowd of millionaires instead of being with our spouses and kids!