Hi, I'm Larry. I'm the jerkhead who's about to write a few hundred words about why I don't like a brand video whose benefactors will donate a free meal to a needy family for every viewing. My parents only acknowledge my existence under oath. It's nice to make your cyber-acquaintance.
There are instances when my brain tells me that I am supposed to be emotionally stirred by something, and yet the tear ducts don't play along. It happens during graduations and eulogies. It happens during renditions of the national anthem, yogurt commercials and Titanic. I am neither a standard-bearer for old-school machismo nor immune to emotional manipulation; it's just that sometimes I can see the flashing IT IS TIME TO FEEL ALL MOVED AND SORROWFUL AND WHATNOT sign and am tripped by the obviousness and/or shamelessness of the appeal.
Only 19 months into my tenure as a dad, it has become clear that I deserve more than a single day in my honor. Not to honk my own honker, but my son can often be found wearing clothes and shoes. He has only been exposed to "Blazing Saddles" on four separate occasions. Whenever he eats crayons, I provide nutritional counterbalance in the form of Apple Jacks. See? Fruit. I am the Genghis Khan of parental equanimity.
This column is a plea. This column is a prayer. This column is an appeal to our collective senses of decency and mercy, an entreaty to a select group of individuals to act in the best interest of our shared humanity, even though to do so would frustrate its own commercial aims. This column is a plea to Capital One to cut its annual media budget by like $400 million.