The Major League Baseball postseason has been going on for two weeks. In that time, I've watched 76 hours and 38 minutes of baseball. I added it up. There's been exactly one game under three hours. That's 197 innings of baseball, with a three-minute break after each half inning.

That's 1,182 minutes of commercials.

That's almost 20 hours of commercials.

I have opinions about commercials. Come, let's talk about these awful things and discuss the five worst commercials of the postseason (so far).

5. I LIKE BIG CRUSTS

People allowed to replace words in a song and be considered half-clever, at best:

Weird Al

Literally no one else. If your first name is Laybee, and you've lived your entire life with the name of Laybee, hating it more than anything you've ever hated in your life, and someone you've had a crush on for two years makes a "Call Me Laybee" joke, begging you to call them and interact and love and explore and grow, you are still justified in throwing red paint on them.

Weird Al. That's it. That's it. Even then, you get to make fun of him for being uncool.

So now that we've agreed with that point, here we have a Sir Mix-A-Lot clone rappin' 'bout crusts. Except look at this garbage:



You know the actual product isn't going to look like whatever formica pizza sculpture the production crew invented for the ad. This is the best-case scenario, then. This is the artist's conception of the best possible meal you could conceivably enjoy at the Mac Shack. You have 10 pieces of sausage. I think I see an onion. The green flecks could be spinach, could be basil. I'm assuming there's a sprinkling of cheese in there.

And it's all surrounded by a WASTELAND OF CRUST. I like big crust. I ... can't argue that point. But what is this shit? It's a range of doughy mountains made from sodium, yeast, air, and failed dreams.

I mean ...



Why can't I just have a meatball? Can't you just put meatballs in the middle of the wasteland of bread? Why do you have to smash them? Are you smashing them with your fists? Your dirty, ill-washed fists? Can I just have a piece of crust? That's all I need, no I'm good, just one small piece of crust.

On second thought, I will not have a smashed meatball on an acre of bread, and you can't make me.

4. Craig. Craig. Craig. Craig. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG. CRAIG.

Here are all of the YouTube comments under this ad:



These are the smartest YouTube comments in the history of the medium, but they still give me the chills.

I grew up with The Simpsons. That's my cultural touchstone. It was witty, dumb, brilliant, poignant, everything. It was eventually replaced in the cultural idiom with Family Guy, which is occasionally humorous, but substitutes four-hour chicken fights in for the witty and poignant. Whatever, you can get off my lawn or not, your call. The chicken-fight gag is a spiritual descendant of Andy Kaufman reading The Great Gatsby. Don't dismiss it just yet. Gags like that have their place.

Except the nuclear waste from those gags is hard to dispose of. Here you see it in an ad for the Dodge Dart, which is like the Ford Focus of cars. The strategy is to get your attention. It gets your attention. Abuses your attention. Leaves your attention on the side of the highway, broken and inconsolable. That's the strategy. Craig. Craig. CRAIG. CRAIG.

3. Boner pills

It's just you ... and your honey.

Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me, but ...

The setting is perfect.

Known in tantric literature as "the goddamned kids actually fell asleep when they're supposed to."

But then, erectile dysfunction happens again.

How many takes did they have to do to get the right mix of disappointment and shaming, but not too much shaming? It's not your fault. It happens to a lot of guys. But you still screwed everything up. You absolutely ruined the everything. Let me suggest a solution in a British accent, something between a supervillain and a naughty nanny.



If you take this pill, there is a gorgeous woman on a beach in front of a sailboat and three random flags (quidditch? idk) just begging to have sex with you. She can wait. She can wait all year. She doesn't even know how to sail, so she's hanging out indefinitely. Just get ... that ... taken care of.



She will have pier sex with you. Do you know what pier sex is like? It's like regular sex, but with hot-ass splinters. Possibly hot ass-splinters. Whichever, it's amazing. I can't believe you've never had pier sex.

To avoid long-term injury, seek immediate medical help for an erection lasting more than four hours.

Hour one: Man. This thing.

Hour two: Seriously.

Hour three: Okay, cut it out.

Hour four: in the ER, dying from boners

Remember, you're watching this ad in the MLB postseason because the fans for this sport are dying and eventually baseball will be usurped by Interstellar Marines 7 live feeds on Twitch2, which is the Twitch channel that actually shows the programming that Twitch used to play before they started to provide different content for the old Twitch users who are growing up, even though you've never had the slightest idea what Twitch ever was.

2. Sad dog, neglected by drunken owner

The idea is that you're supposed to love your dog so much that you want to stay alive for it. This is a noble idea, a laudable goal. By risking your life, you're risking your dog's happiness. Take a cab. Sleep it off. Booze is good, but dogs are better.

Except look at how sad that dog is. Look at everything you've been through. You threw balls around the house when he was a puppy, you chased him and his leash. He ate your shoe (aww) and snuggled when you were sick. You fed him peanut-butter-and-Budweiser slurry...



... and he woke you up with licks. You drove with him and your shitty hat, and you took him to the pier (possibly in hopes of PIER SEX), and there was a barbecue, and ...

you left him

he's lying on the floor

he's looking out the window

he thinks you're home but no it's a neighbor

he's sad

so sad

doggy sad

doggy very sad

How drunk are you? Seriously, how drunk? Maybe you're not that drunk. I mean, you've been drunker. You can probably drive. Dave's couch is lumpy, anyway. Maybe you should go home. It would sure make your best friend, your furry little soulmate, happy.

You can just picture how happy he is.

snuzzasnuzzasnuzza aw good to be home buddy snuzzasnuzzalick

Get in the car and make him happy. What are you waiting for? You're probably fine. Go pet him. C'mon. You owe him this much. He hardly asks for anything.

(Note: Do not drive. Never drive. He's a dog. He'll be fine. Do not listen to this commercial. Don't drive drunk because you will kill someone. Leave the dog out of it. He'll be fine. Why is this commercial making you feel guilty for something you shouldn't feel guilty about? Never drive drunk. Stay away from your dog for a week if you need to. Driving drunk is never, ever worth it.)

My 18-month-old daughter will climb over barbed wire to see this commercial once she hears the song from three rooms away. She'll clamber in and eagerly watch a beer commercial. You pernicious bastards.

1. BAAAAWWWN FREEEE

You are born in chains. Every one of you. You are tethered to the boob or the bottle, and you will remain tethered for years. If you are let free, you will crawl into traffic or hug a scorpion or something equally as awful. You will die if you are not protected and controlled. You are not born free. For starters.

Other problems with this commercial include Kid Rock being terrible at everything. His best studio-desperation growling is maybe -- maybe -- 0.0 WAR to Bob Seger's 4.3 WAR. The lyrics rely on adjective/platitude, adjective/platitude. Fast. High. Young. Fierce. Free. Strong. Deep. Wild. Calm. Lost. On a rough road riding. Through the mountains climbing. Like a new moon rising. It's not a Canyonero commercial, but only because it's not funny.

Trucks. Trucks. Trucks.

It's the frequency that makes this one No.1 with a bullet. It's on every other break. Fast. On a rough road riding. Fast. On a rough road riding. Fast. On a rough road riding. Fast. On a rough road riding. Fast. On a rough road riding. Fast. On a rough road riding. Fast. On a rough road riding. Fast. On a rough road riding. Over and over and over, every commercial break.

I guess Kid Rock is something of an elder statesman, now. The guy responsible for lyrics "I'm the D to the O, P to the D/O to the straight up G see/I been around like Jesus layin tracks/But I had to come back, I had to come back" is now here to tell us about how America is best enjoyed. Ol' Dopdog knows that if there's anything that makes America better, it's a pile of platitudes and 11th-grade poetry. Here, you try.

Climbing. Up a dusty trail

Driving. Through rain and hail

Ambling, rolling, tumbling. Into the blue unknown

And when it's time to face my maker, here's what I'll scream:

I want to make love to my truck

I want to make love to my truck and those hills, but start with the truck

If my truck had a voice, it would be a beautiful, 40-year-old British woman, but one who was never disappointed in me

Pull over. I have to see about a truck

Trucks

Trucks

Hills

Trucks

The worst part is that we've been dealing with this song and the MLB postseason for four years, now.

Maybe the Giants only win in the postseason when there's a Kid Rock promo to lead them? I don't know, I'm not OK with that. I need to shift the blame and tie some horrible music to the Cardinals before I sign off.

Phew. Off the hook.

I guess I could just mute the commercials next year.