I’ve seen GEICO’s “The Final Countdown” commercial several dozen times since it first launched. It brought a big, dumb smile to my face the first time and somehow it hasn’t really gotten old or annoying. There’s a lot of good things here: an awesome song, a moving stage that launches a ridiculous torrent of fireworks, the underrated story of an older woman side-eyeing the weirdos interrupting her lunch and then finally coming around at the end. Seriously, pay attention to her. Shakespeare couldn’t have given her a better character arc. It’s everything I could ask for in a commercial I’m going to have to watch pretty much every time I turn on the TV.
And then yesterday I noticed something that ruined the entire thing for me. Something so terrible I can’t possibly unsee it. Something so misguided I have to seriously question the intentions of everyone involved. That something? Burrito dude’s not using a plate. His naked lunch is placed firmly on the microwave’s rotating bottom tray.
Those of you who’ve spent any appreciable time in an office break room know what I’m talking about. Office microwaves are vile, disgusting devices crawling with all manner of irradiated flora and fauna. Eating food that’s touched any part of it is roughly equivalent to licking the floor in your local watering hole of ill repute. That microwave is just like yo mama: anyone who puts something in there without protection is just asking for it. HEY YO!
Which begs the question: is burrito dude the stupidest man on the planet or the bravest? I’d argue he’s neither. This isn’t a commercial; it’s a cry for help. Listen to the song. Think about the unholy critters crawling up off the floor of that microwave and into the burrito. Examine the dude’s general malaise toward life. I mean, here’s Europe, rolling into the break room on an exploding stage, and burrito dude barely reacts. Who in their right mind wouldn’t stand and cheer and sing along? Burrito dude’s done, man. He’s checked out.
If you’re reading this, burrito dude, I beseech you: seek help immediately. The dissolution of your innards via infested Mexican treat is a terrible way to go. Hold on, friend. Do it for the gecko. Do it to spite Flo and the teleporting State Farm dorks.
Do it for us. All of us.