XM Radio – Thanks, Chatty Cathy

We Canadians like our music. Whether it's the Canadian National Anthem, the Log Driver's Waltz, or the Hockey Night in Canada theme (see: Canadian National Anthem), we're a musical people.

But we're not big on the talking. Oh, we can talk when we have to, and people around the world love our bland, accent-free delivery, but we'd prefer not to. There are so few of us up here in Canadaland anyway we all know what the other ones are thinking. So, when my wife and I discovered the glory that was XM radio, our Canadian hearts were overjoyed!

It initially came with the purchase of a new car, and we didn't think we'd ever bother extending it beyond the bounds of the free trial afforded us. But then we realized the majesty of the thing. There were so many channels! I could drive to work listening to "The King of Wishful Thinking" and with a quick press of a button, rock out to "Anything for Love" by Meatloaf. And the best part was – no talking!

There were no announcers, telling me what I was listening to, following it up with the promise of weather and traffic in three minutes, and then making some sort of comment which I always assumed was intended to be a joke, but since it was devoid of all matter even remotely considered humorous by any portion of the world's population, I wondered why they bothered.

But XM! Oh, the glory! Oh sure, after the free trial it cost money but it was worth it. I got music but no talking. It was like getting all steak with none of the pesky vegetables.

Of course, it couldn't last. I started to hear, faintly, the strident voice of radio announcers, thin and reedy in the streelit night, calling out the names of songs like some kind of flightless bird's mating call. I began to hear a few comments, obviously intend to garner laughter, but I ignored them – they were as the distant waves on a broken shore to me.

But then it happened. Something so foul, so noxious, that I was surprised my radio didn't melt right off of the dash and puddle in the floor mats below. Something spoken of only in whispers, for fear that to speak its name would bring it's hateful eye upon you.

The morning show.

Even now, it gives me chills. I still remember the day I tuned in to one of my go-to stations, only to find the "classic" combination – two guys and one girl – yakking away, and taking phone calls from listeners. The radio apocalypse had come.

XM, I pay for service. PAY FOR IT. Why on this ever-blackening earth would I pay you for something I can get for free? Let's hope you've got an answer, because a letter is en route. Once you get it, you can talk all about it on your morning shows.