Turn out the lights. Arguably the most negative influence in the advance of civilization, television has descended to the final abyss. When the tube insisted on dishing up vacuous sitcoms, we could always find a useful shopping channel. When moronic talk shows proved human beings are inferior to African wildlife, the remote miraculously could discover an entertaining liver transplant. When the prattle of pundits provoked thoughts of suicide options, a live sports event would show up in the nick of time. But now all is lost. Bugs Bunny is a spokesperson for Time Warner products. Bugs, Elmer, Tweety, Daffy—even the purest villain that every lived—Yosemite Sam—all have been conscripted to step out of their world and prove they aren’t real. If anyone had doubts about the natural Depravity of Man and the concept of Original Sin, behold the greedy money barons at Warner. Lacking an atom of creativity, they have robbed generations past of their memories and denied those yet unborn of what was always magic. The time has come for Wile E. Coyote to successfully ambush that idiotic bird and rid the earth of that infernal honking. Truth be known, kids want to see the bird go down anyway. Let’s hear it for Wile E. And try to remember when Bugs was Bugs. He always did it his way.

The decision is all but made. The proliferation of SUVS, mammoth pick-ups and other monster vehicles have rendered the ordinary passenger car passe. Obsolete. Old-hat. Those who stubbornly cling to the automobile are in denial. Barring a cosmic disaster, the number of massive road machines will continue to escalate to keep pace with the hunger for highway domination and personal power. How do we cope with this assault on the simple sedan? How do we compete with 5’2″ moms looking for someone to run over? Let’s see. We could sell everything and work on a horse ranch in Montana. Hmmnn, that’s a little extreme. Like a vampire, we could hole up by day and drive on nearly deserted streets in the wee hours. A somewhat iffy solution unless we aspire to sort mail for an airline cargo hub. Oh, no, not in this life. Maybe later, as a member of Count Dracula’s Un-Dead. How ’bout we sell out and trade for a long-bed V-8 with extended cab—in other words, become one of them? Sorry, there’s a better idea. We need to raise the stakes and jump-start the economy at the same time. It’s time to get in a sleek, rugged Peterbilt. If big is beautiful, this is the ultimate, baby. Think of it. First-class accommodations. High-tech cockpit. 600 horses under a long-nose design. Stainless-steel grill. Acres of brilliant chrome that make a Harley jealous. This is it—this is the future of personal transportation. SUVS and all their bully cousins are history. Of course, we have to check out a Freightliner, maybe a Kenworth. Yeah, also gotta do something about remodeling the garage.

Khalil Gibran, noted thinker, philosopher, author and poet, said children don’t “belong” to their parents. Rather, they are like arrows launched from a bow and thus they belong to the universe. With all due respect, Mr. Gibran forgot to clue-in the kids. Maybe they got launched all right, but they didn’t stay launched. As the Holiday Inn TV ad campaign truthfully and cleverly revealed, millions of the little darlings show up with a mindset that the family home is their private hotel. They bring their meager possessions, maybe an offspring or two and no prospect of gainful employment. If the trend continues, parents should consider reverting to the concept of family farms. Extended families could live together as was the custom decades ago. Not a bad idea, really. Everybody in the family would actually work and grandparents don’t get shipped off to rot in mindless institutions. If a thirty-something adolescent arrives on the doorstep, Pop meets him with a broad smile and a wide hay rake. “Welcome back home, son; you’re just in time to slop the hogs.”