March 24, 2025

KQED Fundraising Department
2601 Mariposa Street
San Francisco, CA 94110

To the Smug, Sniveling, Commie Alms-Takers at KQED,

Here’s your pitiful, puling “urgent” screed back, you sanctimonious jackals—rammed into your own pre-franked envelope because I wouldn’t deign to squander even a penny’s postage on your groveling, guilt-tripping hustle. Month after month, you blitz my mailbox with these mendicant missives, a relentless paper parade of desperation, as if I’m some mark to be fleeced by your cloying, faux-noble bleating. Enough!  Strap in, you pious fucks, because I’m not tossing you a nickel—not now, not ever. I’d sooner torch my wallet in a gasoline-soaked Ethiopian tire pyre than let one cent trickle into the festering maw of your woke-addled, tax-sucking empire.

You and your PBS/NPR ilk have metastasized into a rotten, ghastly, self-parodying abomination—a once-noble experiment in public edification now reduced to a slobbering, liberal-propaganda-spewing she-beast, its tendrils coiled tight around the throats of the unsuspecting. And nowhere is your perfidy more galling, more viscerally enraging, than in the way you’ve hijacked kids’ programming—Sesame Street, that sacred sandbox of innocence, now a Trojan horse for your relentless LGBTQ catechism. You’re not enlightening tender minds; you’re mainlining ideology into their pliable little skulls, a cultural roofie slipped into the Kool-Aid while you preen and prattle about “inclusion.” It’s a betrayal so rank, so predatory, it demands not just defunding but a full-on exorcism—cast you lot into the void and salt the earth behind you.

And the money—oh, sweet Jesus, the money! You guzzle $535 million a year from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, a grotesque tithe pried from taxpayers’ pockets, while your execs—those overstuffed, overcredentialed mandarins—pocket half-mil salaries to sit atop this rotting edifice. For what? To churn out tendentious tripe and flout FCC regs with underwriting spots so brazenly commercial they’d make a used-car salesman blush? Elon Musk’s DOGE brigade, those feral efficiency hounds, are circling your fetid trough—they’ve got the scent of waste, the paper trail of your grift, and the FCC’s own damning audits in their teeth. Word on the street is they’re slicing through the federal budget like a chainsaw through a butter sculpture, and your little sinecure’s next on the block. I can hear the squealing already, and it’s music—pure, discordant, glorious music.

You’re not a public good; you’re a public malignancy, a leech gorged on coerced largesse and sanctimonious cant. If you can’t stand on your own without this ceaseless panhandling and federal handouts, then collapse already—let the weight of your own hypocrisy crush you into dust. I’ll be there, front row, popping champagne when DOGE’s axe falls and your signal goes dark. Consider this my RSVP to the funeral: I’ll bring the matches.

Suck on that, you preening parasites,

JG

N.P.: “Tri Tra Trullala (Herbergsvater 2024)” – Joachim Witt, Timo Maas, King Brain