I know I'm sinking into that eight-months-pregnant-and-perpetually-grumpy slouch, but every time this commercial for the 2011 Toyota Highlander runs, I find myself yelling obscenities at the television.
According to the moppy-haired brat, he "doesn't tolerate dorkiness very well." He disapproves of his family's car choice (there's poor Dad, washing the Dodge caravan in his white socks and sandals). The boy concludes by saying, "Just because you're a parent doesn't mean you have to be lame."
I hate this kid. I hate every bratty, spoiled, entitled thing about him. At a time when families are losing their homes, unable to pay medical bills, and worrying how they're going to put food on the table, I—as a parent—am supposed to give a shit that my kid doesn't think our family car is cool enough?
When I was a kid, my family's VW wagon had holes in the floorboards. During the winter months my father would wrap his legs in a blanket and hop to get into the car. My mother would hand him a cup of coffee for his drive to work. I remember thinking he looked like a worm, not that he was uncool.
Maybe that snot would worry less about being cool if he spent a week in Haiti, where cholera is claiming lives because people are bathing in and drinking water from street canals. Or maybe he'd like a free trip to Mulletville, where Chuck recently encountered a grown man crying at a Walmart register. The man finally had enough to buy his son a birthday present. The kid's birthday was back in April. The present was a box of LEGOs.
Times are tough. Family and friends are what matter—not that your damn minivan has streaming audio capabilities. That kid should be grateful he has food on his plate. And that he can see. What is he, a fucking sheepdog?
Ok, I'm done. For now.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.