American Express makes me cry

I don’t actually have an American Express card – they asked me to leave home without it – so it’s not the card itself that makes my cry, it’s the commercial. Have you seen the commercial where the dad has to whip out his American Express card to pay for his daughter’s wedding? He watches her walk down the aisle, and dance at the reception, and flashes back to when she was a little girl holding his hand, doing daddy/daughter stuff together. It’s very sappy, and strives not to tug, but yank the heartstrings of those American Express daddies out there.

I have three daughters, which could mean three weddings, and I don’t have a card. I called American Express and explained the situation, but they didn’t really have any sympathy for me. Maybe Master Card should make a commercial about weddings. I have a Master Card. You know, it could go something like:

First daughter’s wedding: $15,000.
Second daughter’s wedding: another friggin’ $15,000.
Third daughter’s wedding (dad topples to the ground, grabbing at his chest): Lifeless.

But I digress. The point I was initially trying to make was that stupid American Express commercial makes me cry. I fall for that sappy stuff. I’m a wuss, a wimp. I tried to tell my wife about the commercial – just tell her, it wasn’t actually on at the time – and I started moistening up again. What is wrong with me? I think I need therapy. Or some man-ing up.

And now, combine this blog entry with the last, and this is turning into Wuss Central.

My next entry will be much more butch. I promise. In the mean time, I’ll just swab up this wet keyboard. Thanks American Express. Bastards.