Where I live, there are three radio stations to choose from. Unless, of course, you like having your ears anally raped by the sounds of country music or its retarded cousin, gospel. Which I don’t, in case that isn’t clear. So, if you want music that isn’t country or gospel you have three choices:
[ul]
[li]101.3 FM KRYK Chinook[/li][li]90.1 FM KNMC MSU-Northern College, Havre[/li][li]610 AM KOJM The Pit of Everlasting Shit, Havre[/li][/ul]
101.3 is, as far as I can tell, a robot that was programmed in COBOL by someone who was blind drunk and wishing for the good old days of Obfuscated FORTRAN I contests at the local mental institution. This love-child of the Colecovison and the Atari Jaguar has three settings: 1) Inspid drivel spewed by DJ AIs too stupid to make it on VH-1; 2) Continuously looping top-40 shit picked by a chimp who thinks Prince has class and that Michael Bolton should lay off the crank, and; 3) Rape-me-in-the-ears 80s noise that reminds us the 80s was the era of the one-hit-wonder for a reason.
Whereas 101.3 is the height of technology, 90.1 is held together by duct tape, baling wire, and badly scratched CDs. It’s run by college students who are more in need of a life, anyone’s life, a one-legged Vietnamese hooked-on-cheap-opium whore’s life, than I am. Those kids can really keep a groove going. They know all about theme and flow. THEY PLAY OZZY OZBOURNE RIGHT AFTER WHINY-GUT-BUCKET HANK WILLIAMS! Then they play blues, just to keep the beat going. And, of course, they play Bob Dylan. They fill the airwaves with the sound of Bob Dylan choking the cat in his throat to death. Dylan was a poet. He could write circles around anyone out there, but my dog sounds better than him. And when the students do get around to playing something worthwhile, like Dark Side of the Moon, they fuck it up. THEY INTERRUPTED ECLIPSE TO PLAY LILITH-BITCH FEM-SHIT! I think it was Jewel, but it’s hard to tell one whiner from another when you’re screaming at your radio, threatening Horrible Bloody Smurf-Fucking Death to the brain damaged college punk who swapped out auditory bliss for the shriekings and whinings of a succubus from a mud-soaked Anti-Guy cuntfest!
610 is for when you are so sick of the FM runaround that beating your head against a concrete piling sounds attractive. 610 offers all of the pleasure of beating your own brains out, but none of the skull-crunching satisfaction that comes from a job well done. 610 is where old Easy Listening shit goes to die. If Hell has a lounge, 610 would be piped in over loudspeakers to torment those who wore cream Nehru jackets and beige velour. The terminally dull, such as the freaks who organize their sock drawer by amount of lint, listen to 610 to remind them that their life is exciting and filled with intrigue after all. Most often used phrase on 610: “Let’s check in with the Weather Command!” I think that if it’s called the Weather Command, it should command the weather. Captain Thunderbutt of the Weather Command should be able to make it rain strippers and twenties every Saturday. After all, he commands the weather. He’s in the Weather Command!
And people wonder why I have so many CDs.
[Couldn’t bear to see this post die.]
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