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Dear Six Flags Corporation,
I am part of a minority in America, in that I don’t have cable. Like the proud Somalians, I must resort to piracy if I am to fulfill my material and entertainment needs. That is, until last week when my TV inexplicably started having all the major network channels where once there was static. I guess the Somalian analogy there would be getting sniped in the face, but in a good way.
And though I have since been enjoying occasionally-flickering episodes of
House and the
Simpsons/Family Guy hybrid that
The Simpsons has become, I’ve also been repeatedly reminded why I canceled my cable in the first place.
No, I’m not talking about commercial breaks, episode preemption or
Two and a Half Men. My cable-demon has a face. An old, plastic, wrinkled, terrifying face. It’s this guy:
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Fuck. This. Guy. I fucking hate him. He looks like someone left a dead turtle in a stagnant pool of water for a month then put glasses on it. And as his parent, it's your responsibility to abort him.
Let’s make one thing clear: This man has no business giving me advice on anything post-Cold War Era, let alone my choice of amusement park. If this guy went on a roller coaster, his putrefied organs would ooze out of every orifice. In fact, THAT’S what you should put in the commercial. Seriously, if you built a roller coaster called “Der Elderkiller” and killed off your mascot in the commercial for it, I promise I would call and buy a season pass immediately.
Where’d you get this guy?