Well, SOMETHING had to be intelligent here....

The woman driving the Audi Q7 is either blind as a bat or so overwhelmed by her own sense of self-satisfaction- as well as confidence that her super-smart car will protect her from her total disconnect with the world around her- that she was unable to detect a car approaching on a perfectly level road at a four-way stop in the middle of the  night.

Yeah, the Audi Q7 was absolutely the right choice for her.  Setting aside my amazement that she managed to survive despite the fact that until this year cars with these ridiculous safety features were not even on the market, I would argue that it was the ONLY choice for her.  I'm sure the person in the other car agrees- no one this obtuse and clueless should be behind the wheel of any other car.

I mean, she's not even shown distracted by a phone call or an update on a friend's Facebook page.  She's not like nine out of ten people I see driving around every day with eyes glued to their phones or encased in electronic cocoons with suburb-vibrating music.  She's just SITTING THERE IN ABSOLUTE SILENCE  And she doesn't notice that car approaching?  Good luck, lady.  Sooner or later you have to leave that car- and you seem destined to walk against the light or fall down an uncovered utility hole sooner or later.

This is Kathleen. We probably shouldn't get used to her being around

This is Kathleen.  Kathleen is a wedding planner.  Kathleen's day starts with big plans to make someone else's wedding a wonderful, happy experience- and with pain.  So Kathleen takes two Tylenol.

Kathleen feels ok for a while, but by the time she's done directing the arrangement of place settings, that pain is back and it's time for two more Tylenol.  That holds her until the DJ gets the reception cranked up, at which point it's time for two more Tylenol.

Long story short- by the time Kathleen is ready to hand the happy couple their bill for her services, Kathleen has gulped down eight Tylenol to get herself through the day.

Fortunately, Kathleen's got concerned co-workers.  One of them has picked up on the fact that Kathleen is severely addicted to over-the-counter pain killers.  Not really being much of a friend, her advice isn't "hey, you really need to see a doctor, this sounds like a long-term problem that you shouldn't be masking with liver-destroying anti-inflammatories." Nope.  It's "hey, you should switch to this alternative medication."  Great friend there, Kathleen.

Kathleen has found a way to ignore the very clear and obvious warning signs her body is giving her with two pills instead of eight, which I guess is a step in the right direction.  Personally, though, I wouldn't put a lot of money down on Kathleen dying with a healthy liver.  Or living to what nowadays we'd call a ripe old age.  Because Kathleen is in denial, her coworkers apparently don't really give a damn, and no one can make her sit down with a doctor for a professional diagnosis.

This is Kathleen.  Don't get used to her being around.  I don't think it ends well for her.

Most believable part of this ad: Daughter is going to share a picture of her Eggo

The snark about the phone obsession is just too easy, so I'll go a different route.  I've done more than enough People Being Slaves To Their Phones posts, after all.  So here's a lighter take-

1.  Is there only one Eggo left in the house?  If not, why is it that everyone at that table wants an Eggo, but there's only one being warmed in a toaster which clearly has two slots?  And if so, why does a family which clearly enjoys eating these mass-produced bland waffles let itself get down to only one left?

2.  Assuming that the toaster doesn't magically get pregnant with Eggos, shouldn't the one toasting be the property of the person who inserted it?  I mean, that's how it works in the real world, isn't it?  One of these people put the waffle in the toaster.  Three others are claiming it- how?  What am I missing here?

3.  These people don't love Eggo waffles.  They love COLD Eggo waffles.  When the thing finally pops up, none of them seem particularly interested in taking it.  If Predictably Privileged Little Girl didn't suddenly show up and take the waffle (gee, didn't see that coming, what a twist, awesome writing, Eggo) how long would the family have let it sit there while they continued to engage in a stupid battle of texts?

Ooops, sorry, I said I wasn't going to go there.  Never mind that last part.

Kevin Hart "Borrowed" ad just brings the rage

OH SERIOUSLY KID ARE YOU F--ING KIDDING ME?

Your dad is Kevin f--ng Hart.

You live in a freaking gleaming mansion of excess.

If he wants to borrow your freaking sweatshirt, HE GETS TO BORROW YOUR SWEATSHIRT.

Now, go to your section of the palace....um, I mean, your room!  And don't you even THINK about ever rolling your eyes again, you stupid spoiled shmuck!

(BTW, how pathetic is it that Kevin Hart is a comedian?  Is there anything remotely funny about any of this?  I can't even understand most of the dialogue here.  And what I can't understand, I don't normally find funny.)

Rejected Script for the Lactaid Cow

"Hey, human woman!  You look like you enjoy drinking milk, but you often just walk past the dairy section because your tummy has a hard time dealing with lactose."

"Well, here's the answer to your problem- Lactaid!  It's made from real milk, and after all I should know, being a strange animated blue cow who lives in a grocery store cooler and is spending what few days I have left urging you hominids to drink what I produce after spending 99 percent of my 'life'- no, let's call it 'existence'- in a cage too narrow to turn around in, hooked up to machines which stuff me full of hormones and vitamins and steroids designed to turn me into less of a mammal and more of a milk-producing machine with a freakish, artificially-huge udder that would not allow me to stroll around fields like my ancestors did, even if I wanted to--- and man, do I want to...."

"Of course, even if I COULD wander about without my back snapping in half under the weight of my enormous milk sacs, what would I do with that ability other than search for the calves I have not seen since the day I birthed them- calves I never fed with my own milk, and which have probably all been processed and consumed by you in a thousand other forms.  So, are you a hamburger girl, or more into steak? Doesn't matter to me, any more than it mattered to my calves.  All that mattered was that you got to gorge your sensitive tum-tom, right?"

"So here you go- Lactaid is real milk, without that nasty lactose stuff they haven't quite managed to drug out of me yet.  Costs a bit more than my natural milk, but I'm sure you'll find it worth it.  Please let me know the next time you visit, I'm really dying to know.  But please hurry- don't have much of a lifespan, and wouldn't even if I DIDN'T live in this cooler."

At Tysons, it's all about the effort

This commercial would have been so much better if that kid's "thank you for going all out on reheating pre-cooked fried chicken parts" speech had been snark.  Little sister could have added "and the Pillsbury canned biscuits really put an accent on the love, mom!"

Then dad could have stopped playing piano long enough to throw in with "hey, that looks like actual salad she's serving up, too!  That must have taken upwards of two minutes to get out of the bag into the bowl, and who do you think put the dressing on the table?  We should all give Mom a big round of applause for using the spacious, well-equipped kitchen she has with such awesome effect!  Way to go, Mom!"

Then mom could have given her whole family the middle finger before announcing "screw all this, I'm going back to school!  Kids- the piano man can do the cooking from now on.  Get ready for a steady menu of Stouffer's Pot Pies and Hot Pockets."

Then the children who, after all, simply don't know any better having been raised by these two jackasses, give eachother high-fives and suggest that dad eases into his new role slowly by ordering online at PapaJohns tomorrow night.  Hey, we can try that new pizza-sized chocolate chip cookie while we're at it!

Panera: Food for Rich White People

"Clean Pairings."  Did you hear that noise?  That was my soul dying under the weight of the narrator's self-satisfaction.

Ugh, the pretention!  It BURNS!

Seriously, though- the entire message of this heaping, steaming pile of bilge is "when you've got money, you don't eat prole food- you don't go to KFC or McDonald's or Burger King or even Subway.  You go to twee designer bread places like Panera, where you can get 'dirty' salads with 'clean' dressing, $5 cups of Low-Fat Vegetarian Garden Vegetable Soup with Pesto  sprinkled ever so gently with organic garlic, and $4 pitas to dip into it.  You bring all this stuff home to your Not Very Appreciative kids, all of whom would just kill to see a bucket of fried chicken or a sack of White Castle burgers just once, if only you asked them.  But you'll never ask them."

So, to all you "progressive" posers-- please, continue to bring this overpriced junk home and dissapoint your kids, time and time again.  Don't be too surprised when they begin to find reasons to not be home for dinner, coming home later with grease on their faces and empty Quick Wipe packets in their designer jeans.  Because believe me, there are only so many dirty salads one can eat, and there are only so many ways to disguise tasteless lumps of warm bread.

Here's a better idea- buy some rolls and salad (buy them at Whole Foods Market and make sure they are 'organic,' if you insist) and a can of soup, throw it together yourself in your kitchen,  Send the money you saved to Oxfam, you awful pretentious twats.