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Dear Six Flags Corporation, I am part of a minority in America, in that I donâ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, Iâve also been repeatedly reminded why I canceled my cable in the first place. No, Iâm not talking about commercial breaks, episode preemption orTwo and a Half Men. My cable-demon has a face. An old, plastic, wrinkled, terrifying face. Itâs this guy:

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. Letâ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, THATâS what you should put in the commercial. Seriously, if you built a roller coaster called âDer Elderkillerâ and killed off your mascot in the commercial for it, I promise I would call and buy a season pass immediately. Whereâd you get this guy?