Would the AM radio frequency please come forward from their seat? I need the hosts of talk journalism to please rise to attention as well. I will allow the two of you some time to make your way up on this sarcastic baptismal stage. Thank you! Now, I need the both of you to lie down in the middle of this B.S. session because I am going drive a Greyhound bus close by and throw the two of you under it. Your cooperation in this manner is truly appreciated among the listening audience, and will attend to your cries at the top of the hour after a few short words from our sponsors and stations have a chance to identify themselves.
“Professional drinkers of the one-sided opinion bottle company”—that’s what faithful people who enjoy these radio broadcasts put as a job description on their tax returns every fiscal year. Unless, of course, you live in Washington as a politician and can skillfully deter the tedious task of forking over U.S. currency with portraits gagged symbolizing the hostile takeover of taxpayer funds. (That was all in one breath) But for those who loyally tune in to these poor excuses of verbal entertainment, the Kool Aid man will be coming around during intermission to refill your cup so you can continue to drink up the imitation NPR nonsense.
On the other side of that syndicated microphone sits some of the most arrogant, Shrek-in-look, gabaholics whose false pretenses in their minds state they are God’s gift to man’s ears. Insert an eye roll whenever you audibly witness these residents of the speaking occupation in idle complaints. Suffering from symptoms of the common cold? An old football injury giving you some ‘tude? Give me a break! Stop pussy footin’ around like a back alley Tom cat, and deal with it! Last time I checked, you only had to work for a petty couple hours a day. Let me crawl inside your brain and play the world’s smallest violin. Think of it as some dinner music to enjoy as you eat the foot currently planted in your mouth. Obviously, the revenge of my voodoo doll must be in effect as I manipulate it “with half my brain tied behind my back…just to make it fair.” Next, I will “take a stab” at the voice box area which will be disguised as a little visit from the internal Tonya Harding side seeking another scandal opportunity. She still has a lack of anti-freeze in that bitterly cold temper reservoir to make Ed Schultz look like a baby Jesus replica in a church Nativity scene.
The written speakers implanted in this passage are due for replacement since the hate volume was turned up to the max. I have two options: Not heed the warning and let the stupid drool out of my mouth like one radio psychologist did previously (to protect the innocent, we'll call her Dr. Laura), or invest in scripted cochlear implants that EIB’s Mr. Limbaugh could construct using his grandpa-like hearing devices as a template. Neither sound promising enough for me to continue this train wreck of a perspective. So the mute is officially activated.
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