Dirty Diapers.

WTF is up with the people at Pampers? Most of their ad campaigns (with the exception of that one with Salma Hayek and the most-imitable pronunciation of "Pampers" ever) are geared directly at toddlers. Like, they address babies directly about their diaper needs.

Where do I even start with this nonsense? How about that it's totally gross to market directly to PEOPLE WHO CANNOT EVEN INFLUENCE PURCHASING DECISIONS YET since they can't, you know, TALK. Like it's not bad enough that kids are constantly bombarded with commercialism and consumerism, now we're indoctrinating them to buy, buy, buy practically as soon as they emerge from the birth canal? Are the parents watching this thinking, "Why aren't they talking to me? I'm the one with the cash money"?

Secondly, what is this crap about how busy toddlers are, toiling around the house? No, they're not. They're napping, being waited on hand and foot, occasionally throwing tantrums and generally making a mess.

I get that they're really addressing the parents here with mentions of lawn care, household chores, etc., but it's really disturbing. Isn't it bad enough that 6 year olds know all the words to Pussycat Dolls songs and that child beauty pageants exist? Do we have to take a bunch of kids with no pants on who can't even use indoor plumbing yet and project them into roles of daily drudgery? Can we not just let kids be kids? Cripes. It's enough to make a person want to turn off the TV and become Amish. Although then I guess the kids would be raising barns from the time they could walk, so...

Trite Tripe.

Can we all agree to stop using the phrase "I love [whoever] to death"? I mean, WTF does that mean, anyway? That you love the person so much you want to kill them? That is not cool, man.

Even if intent to murder is not the intended subtext of the phrase, I've noticed that people usually use it to talk about someone they actually don't like all that much. "I love Hans to death... But his sandals make me gag." "I love my mother in-law-to death... but I'm glad she lives in Guam." "I love children to death... But I have vivid nightmares that those creepy twins from that Ikea commercial will somehow find me and murder me in my sleep." (Seriously, what is that commercial even about?! That the mom loves her matching ovens more than her twins? That twins are evil? The Twin Anti-Defamation League needs to get on that.)

While we're eradicating irritating, meaningless phrases from our collective vocabulary, let's also do away with the space-filler, "It is what it is." Oh, is it, really? WHAT? If it's not what it is, then WHAT IS IT? It's like an existential mind-bender. But stupid.

Maximizing Exercise.

So, like: exercise. Cardio, more specifically. The goal here is to raise your heart level up and get that sucker pumping, right? Strengthen it up, burn those calories? To accomplish this, it's often recommended that you strap ankle and wrist weights to yourself and then go walk up some stairs or gad about town. Wouldn't it create the same effect if you were just fat? Because then you're hauling around extra weight all the time and, hey, no Olivia Newton-John accoutrement needed!

Along the same lines, smoking is also proven to raise one's heart rate. If you lit up while running, you could get twice the workout in half the time! How about installing some ashtrays on the elliptical machines at the gym? I saw a guy out jogging once: sweatbands, shortie shorts, tank top, the whole nine, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he chugged down the sidewalk. Some would call him an idiot. I dub him a Master of Optimization.

Go Away, Ginkgo.

Let me tell you, no one loves a tree more than I do. Remember when those trees all went ape in one of those Lord of the Rings movies? That was totally the best part. I also aspire to live in a tree one day. I'm aiming for those stars.

But unlike man, not all trees are created equal. Some are hotter than others and some are a downright mess. Take the ginkgo tree - please. These things are nasty: when the ginkgo berries get ripe or whatever and plop down on the sidewalk, they emit an exquisite scent reminiscent of like, rotten fruit meets manure (identifying scents is not my strong suit and my inability to do so points to what I fear is early onset Alzheimers. Ironically, ginkgo is supposed to be good for your memory.)

And for some reason, the city of Philadelphia has seen fit to plant these things on every. single. block. Not only do they stink, but once you step in the fallen berries, they form a slick gel that then smells AND could potentially cause you to have a Life Alert moment. I know they're supposed to be hearty and be able to thrive in polluted environments, but man - they are contributing to the pollution.

Tippie Toe.

Remember that whole Ted Danson/Whoopi Goldberg conflagration? Like, what was that? They got together whilst filming edgy, topical comedy "Made in America" during which Whoops visits Ye Olde Sperm Bank and gets implanted with Sam Malone's fluids. Next thing you know, they're dating in real life and he's donning blackface at the Friar's Club in a misguided attempt to be his generation's Al Jolson (not to be confused with this guy).

Evidently, movie sets lead to strange bedfellows: Billy Bob and Angelina, anyone? Those were the days: those two sittin' around, swappin' blood vials and eatin' only orange foods. Then there was Brad Pitt and Juliette Lewis. Um... what? Slightly less weird was the Uma Thurman/Gary "Sid Vicious" Oldman connection. Homegirls were hitched when Uma was only 20 years old and Gary had not yet made cinematic history with his pivotal role in the cinematic classic, Tiptoes.

Are you aware of this film? If not, you should familiarize yourself with it, stat. It features Matthew McConaughey and Gary Oldman as twins. Not only are they visibly like 20 years apart in age, but Gary makes a brave choice here and plays a midget. Matt's midget twin brother. Walking around on his knees, not unlike Dorf. It's all quite extraordinary. Thrown in for good measure is a cornrowed Patsy Arquette, Kate Beckinsale and real-life midget Peter Dinklage. He also makes a brave choice by playing a Frenchman with what might be the worst fake French accent since that guy who called Sarah Palin pretending to be the King of France. I hope I'm not giving anything away, here. It's really a must-see.

Border Follies.

Here's a fact: when you flee Canada for the U.S. via plane, they make you go through U.S. customs in Canada.

In Toronto, for instance, you go into the airport, expecting to proceed through the metal detectors and on to your gate and the opportunity to buy duty-free perfume and tobacco, but no. First you're confronted with a bunch of signs saying "U.S. Customs Checkpoint" and a line about 7 billion people long. If you've been up all weekend chugging maple syrup and searching desperately for moose, being confronted by all of this is a bit disorienting.

To complete the tableau and create the illusion that you're really about to cross the border, the stations are manned by surly, unsmiling customs people. Just in case you still have doubts that you've actually left Canada (even though you're still in Toronto), a miniature Statue of Liberty flanked by two crooked American flags with a sad "Welcome to the United States" banner draped in between is the first thing you see after your passport (no longer) gets stamped. Like that's going to fool anyone. "Look kids, it's the statue of Liberty! We must be in NEW YORK CITY!" All I wanted to know was, can I still unload some of this money with beavers on it?

Fat Joe

I normally limit my reality TV dating show viewing only to shows with the word "Joe" in the title: Average Joe, Joe Millionaire, Outback Joe, Joe Cruise, The Littlest Groom... Then I discovered More to Love, which is evidently like a big-boned version of The Bachelor. The Bachelor's chunky cousin, if you will: a smarmy, husky fella dates a bunch of ample ladies then has to give one an engagement ring at the end. In between, we're treated to the stats of each trick, including name, hometown, age and of course, weight. Classy!

In between, there's a lot of boring dates involving rich desserts; forcing insecure, plus-sized women to appear in swim wear on national TV; labored breathing; and making out. Herein lies the problem (because obviously, the problem is not that this is a show that exploits the overweight while purporting to "empower" them, as Daisy of Love purports to empower hookers): the sounds of mastication and of sucking on one another's faces are not hot. Slurping, swallowing, sucking melted cheese out of one another's teeth - it's gross no matter who's doing it. And because the producers wanted to remind us that HEY THESE PEOPLE LOOOVE EATING! there was an inordinate amount of it on More to Love.

On the plus side (no pun intended), M2L marked the triumphant return of Emme, who is like the plus-sized version of one Ms. Janice Dickinson, minus The Crazy, probable Quaalude addiction and botched plastic surgery. Emme was the "hostess" of M2L, meaning that at the end of each episode when it was time for the smarmy guy to boot off one in his stable of women, she came out of nowhere wearing some rag that looked like a castoff from Dancing with the Stars to like, announce that he was about to kick someone out, then swiftly pivoted and stalked off without further explanation. Way to get that cash, Emme! Bravo. It was actually kind of awesome.