I’ve been all around the country, and ofc there are exceptions but radio in general is ridiculously conservative. If I have to hear another Christmas song I might just lose it…
Christmas is the fricking most magical glorious perfect impeccable dazzling time of year, motherlover! How DARE you pitiful grinches not love every single jolly holly jingly bit of it, motherlover! What is fricking wrong with you freaks?! Have you no festive spirit, noPopulated forests of pine trees covered in twinkling rainbow lights that blanket me in cozy, tinsel-y warmth, b-word? No army of nutcracker soldiers marching up the fricking stairs bearing plates of fudgy butter cookies and mugs overflowing with marshmallowy hot cocoa, b-word? No glistening angels fluttering through the fricking alleyways at midnight, telling stories of poor skeletal children whose bones are fricking decomposing in the fricking cemetery because they don’t have proper Christmas dinners to nourish them, b-word? YOU SHOULD, motherlover! Let their blood and marrow splatter all over youuntil you finally understand the fricking true meaning of Christmas, you naughty scrooges, motherlover! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have gingerbread houses to build while I listen to Madonna’s Christmas album on repeat for all eternity.
I’ve been all around the country, and ofc there are exceptions but radio in general is ridiculously conservative. If I have to hear another Christmas song I might just lose it…
Have you tried not being a grumpy godless commie? Imagine saying that Christmas is conservative.
You don’t have to be a godless commie to dislike having a religious event be commercialised and shoved down your throat months before the event.
Christmas is the fricking most magical glorious perfect impeccable dazzling time of year, motherlover! How DARE you pitiful grinches not love every single jolly holly jingly bit of it, motherlover! What is fricking wrong with you freaks?! Have you no festive spirit, noPopulated forests of pine trees covered in twinkling rainbow lights that blanket me in cozy, tinsel-y warmth, b-word? No army of nutcracker soldiers marching up the fricking stairs bearing plates of fudgy butter cookies and mugs overflowing with marshmallowy hot cocoa, b-word? No glistening angels fluttering through the fricking alleyways at midnight, telling stories of poor skeletal children whose bones are fricking decomposing in the fricking cemetery because they don’t have proper Christmas dinners to nourish them, b-word? YOU SHOULD, motherlover! Let their blood and marrow splatter all over youuntil you finally understand the fricking true meaning of Christmas, you naughty scrooges, motherlover! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have gingerbread houses to build while I listen to Madonna’s Christmas album on repeat for all eternity.