If I were a religious man, which I'm not, I would find all the evils of the world represented and validated in the current batch of car commercials, which I do.

The first ad I hate has a wild-eyed guy on a busy street telling everyone “We all must change.” Up pulls some car that's about the size of a modest, three-bedroom condominium (2.5 bthrms, full ktchn, spacious atrium overlooking community garden). And out of it steps one guy – one guy! – from a car that could transport a medium-sized fire company.

This, I would think, is exactly the sort of behavior that must change.

But instead, the driver folds down a few things in the vehicle's interior, converting it from an SUV to a cargo vehicle, and the wild-eyed guy thanks him. Even our prophets derive mystical satisfaction – discover the messiah they long had presaged – by watching some guy from a Sharper Image catalog change his ozone layer-eating land zeppelin from a worthless pile of crud into another kind of worthless pile of crud.

Admittedly, however, worshiping false gods in this way is extreme even for a car ad. Most commercials just stick to childish brands of vanity and envy. You get a few people together, and (as we all do when things get slow) they start comparing the features of similar mid-sized sedans. For example, two women meet at a high school reunion, and one of them – for no reason – starts insulting the other one's car. What sort of satisfaction do you get from popping back into someone's life 10 years after graduation just to belittle their engine warranty?

It's not that I don't know these ads are supposed to be “funny.” I understand “jokes.” I'm “groovy.” The kids “dig” me.

Twenty-three “skiddoo.”

It's just that each ad is the same joke, with the same point: The car is more than a car. It is a life and a soul, which you do not otherwise have.

Why does this upset me? Because I could have written this stuff. Somebody just had to ask. I'm reeking of wrath, pride, gluttony, lust and especially avarice. I want to get paid for making the viewing public feel like sacks of garbage.

Just a few of my script ideas: A woman ditches her family for an abusive relationship with an ugly, obnoxious, three-time felon because he drives a Hyundai Tiburon.

Or the woman from the high school reunion commercial travels to Afghanistan, finds some starving widow and really rubs it in her face that she doesn't have a 5,000-mile buyer protection plan.

Or then there's this:

The commercial opens in a cancer ward. Two terminal patients lie side-by-side, hooked up to intensive car machines.

Patient No. 1: “So. Given any thought to what kind of hearse you'll have?”

Patient No. 2: “I've lined up a classic Cadillac Crown Sovereign. Real sweet car. You?”

Patient No. 1: “I'm going out in a Nissan Pathfinder.”

Patient No. 2: “Pathfinder makes a hearse?! If only I'd known!”

Patient No. 1: “Does your hearse have all-wheel drive and advanced suspension so you can ride over even the toughest terrain?”

Patient No. 2: “We're only going from the church to the graveyard. I don't see why ...”

Patient No. 1: “Plus anti-lock brakes and a 20-ton towing capacity, all for $7,000 less than your Cadillac.”

Patient No. 2: “Stop, I'm already suffering enough from this fatal disease.”

Patient No. 1: “If you'd spent more of your life comparing these features and less of it raising your children and your orphaned niece and nephew, you'd also have a hearse with an automatic CD changer that comes standard.”

Patient No. 2: “I ... mother ...”

Patient No. 2's heart monitor flatlines, and he dies. Nurses enter and cover the body.

Patient No. 1: “Wait. I haven't told you about Pathfinder's sunken wheel well, convertible seating and all-parts warranty. Don't move him yet, nurse. I need to talk about the seating capacity, the cockpit dashboard, the sleek lines or the … No please, don't take him away. I'll have no one! Noooooooo!”