Milestones

Today at 5:05 pm I finished my last class.
Ever.

As I was walking out, a group of kids were talking on the stairs.
"Is this your last?"
"Yeah, all done."
"Me too!"
"I can't believe it, we're, like, done the first half of 3rd year!"

I smiled to myself, turned on my music, and walked out into the rain.

(and promptly DROWNED FROM THE CATACLYSMIC FLOOD FALLING FROM THE SKY... why can't WE have the snow?)

Wondering...

... about the propriety of choosing to play Michael Jackson songs in order to draw attention to the "Kids 4 Kids" campaign going on outside the Library this afternoon.
I mean, seriously.

Everytime I hear that man sing:
"The kid is not my son" I mentally append it with "... so at least it's not like incest or anything."

Next time, consider basing music selection on more than the fact that it has the word "kid" in it. It doesn't always create the desired associations.

Overdrive: will be set off by anything that holds my attention for longer than 32 seconds. Lock up your children and your texts.

To continue in my previous vein of hate-on-commercials, I just saw a Caramilk commercial. They can't quite seem to give up the whole "secret to getting the caramel inside a caramilk bar" (P.S. Cadbury: The secret's been out for 10+ years, give it up already), but this one had a variation.
Unfortunately I can't find a posted web version yet, which reduces me to the I-realize-annoying technique of description. Bear with me if you've already seen it, or better yet, skip to the end.
So a man, one presumes the archetypal 50s bread winner, arrives home from work. Just as he walks in the door, his perfect, pearl-sporting wife pops the very last piece of her Caramilk bar into her mouth -- not by accident, not to her dismay when she realizes he might have wanted it, but quickly, selfishly, so that he doesn't have the opportunity to ask for it. This goes on over and over, each episode representing a successive decade (with surprisingly no adverse affect to wifey's waistline). The husband gets more and more disgusted.
Until finally the day comes when the husband hobbles in the door using a walker. He looks expectantly to see the last piece disappear, when suddenly a surprised smile lights his face...
In her dotage (and presumed lack of a single remaining tooth), his wife has several pieces of the Caramilk bar left. He races his walker towards her and she stuffs all the pieces into her mouth at once. The announcer then coyly suggests, "Maybe the secret to the Caramilk bar isn't the caramel, but finding someone who will share" (paraphrased).

Now, my questions are as follows:
1. Did anyone else, who has seen this commercial, or who just read my rendition, have the thought, when they saw (read) his smile of excitement, before they saw her stuff her face, that maybe finally that b**** had died on the green couch (there was a green couch) and that instead of a useless, chocolate-guzzling h*-bag waiting for him to come home, the Caramilk bar was lying there in pristine untouchedness waiting for his deprived arthritic hands to cradle and consume it?

2. Did anyone else wonder why the hell a) he didn't just buy his own damn chocolate bar, or b) he bothered to come back home at all?

3. Does this interpretation mean that I am a) analysis-crazed, or b) chocolate-crazed, or c) post-feminist, or d) other (please specify)?

The glass ceiling installed in your television screen

Last night around 2 am, my brother and I were staring vacantly at the television screen, when the new Taco Bell commercial came on. You can see it here or here (a crappier version on YouTube).
Basically, the girl gets denied in the little boys-only knuckle salute, and her contribution is invalidated. An overreaction on my part? Probably. Except that I was immediately reminded of that chicken sandwich commercial (of which I can unfortunately not find a copy on the internet) where there's three guys and a girl sitting in a car eating chicken sandwiches (from McDonald's?) and all three guys say CHICKEN! in big stupid voices, and it's funny for them, but when the girl joins they act as though she's just ripped off a massive fart.

I said as much to my brother, who, amazingly did not seem to share my indignation:

A: GOD! That is just like the CHICKEN ONE! Girls don't get knuckle OR chicken. What is with these commercials?
J: I don't know what you're talking about at all right now.
A: You know? That commercial? Where they're all CHICKEN! CHICKEN! CHICKEN! but when she's like CHICKOWN-OWN, they look at her like she's crazy?
J: ...
A: It's like this big joke they're pretending exists that we're not in on.
J: I think I'm going to get some chicken when I go to the store tomorrow.
A: WILL IT BE EQUAL OPPORTUNITY CHICKEN?
J: It'll be spicy.