I empathize with any dumb kid who does a dumb-kid thing - up to a point, which is located far, far, far short of what happened in Steubenville. And that's why I have a hard time reconciling my thoughts on personal accountability with the apologist thrust of Mistakes Kids Make's first-ever video fusillade, independent of the peculiar and unfortunate timing of its arrival.

What I love most about St. Patrick's Day is the authenticity. Even as the gutters run gold with the discharge of a thousand tumescent bladders, nary a celebrant loses sight of the history behind the hooliganism.

My toddler son has entered the annihilatory stage of his relationship with objects. His three favorite pastimes, in no particular order, are emptying a basket filled with baseballs and launching them down the stairs, one by one; using the mini-mallet that came with a recent toy purchase to survey the textural hardiness of our windows and TV screens; and fashioning a crude drum kit out of pots and pans, then attempting to best the 24-minute duration of "Moby Dick."

I like my dental floss to break into song at random intervals, my ketchup to dazzle me with its knowledge of paleontology and my napkins to be fluent in no fewer than three romance languages. Thus it stands to reason that I expect big things - spiritual things, wondrous things, common-humanity-affirming things - from my laundry detergent. Unfortunately, while my current brand has value as street currency, it does little to delight and galvanize me. All it does is de-funkify post-workout clothes that, were I blessed with a limitless supply of stretchy activewear, would either be burned or sent to …

I've reached a point where my day-to-day existence has morphed into something out of a hammock catalog. Where I used to be all about fried food and sports-doing, I now spend my leisure hours in a state of constant vigilance against encroaching ear hair. Too, in order to function, I need naps as long as the afternoon is... well, long. Related: Is there anything more fulfilling than an afternoon nap? Friend, there is not. I wish I could take an afternoon nap right now. Too bad it's 9:20 a.m. I'll apply for a waiver.

If you ask me, there's nowhere near enough sex or wink-wink implied sex in brand videos nowadays. Don't agree? Check out the most recent batch of clips promoting diapers, inspection cameras or medical alert systems for seniors. Not a one features the daintily oiled torso of a modern-day he-Zeus, or a nubile, wild-eyed tart coming within a strand of double-stick tape of laying waste to our treasured obscenity statutes.

Here's a column I never thought I'd have to write: One in which I present the pros and cons of including malevolent clowns and aquatic hellscapes in brand videos for tea.

I've got Super Bowl ad fever! It's basically acute diphtheria, minus the engorged lymph nodes but with a pronounced fungal component. The gals behind the desk at Dr. Sliffeninnin's office have tactfully broached the topic of organ donation.

Okay: that Coca-Cola video. I was out last week attending to matters of important personal business and, as a result, missed most of the tsk-tsking and are-they-serious? giggles in its wake. To recap: the beverage giant, fearing that it's about to absorb a few love taps from the regulatory mallet, released "Coming Together," a clip proclaiming that it is an ally in the fight against obesity, diabetes, heart disease, osteoporosis, pancreatitis, kidney failure, cavities, sugar tongue and every other health scourge to which overconsumption of its 650 beverages may or may not contribute. Check that - Coca-Cola isn't just an …

At some point in the future, it's possible that I will recast my phone as an organizational nerve center. In theory, I could use it to track my spending, deadlines and numerous important appointments. It could direct me to Wi-Fi-enabled haven and Yelp-approved public restroom alike. Heck, it could prompt me to modernize my current keep-track-of-self scheme, which consists mostly of Post-It notes and mnemonic catchphrases.