Every year, I swear I'm going to contribute to my local public radio station and every year they manage to make me not do it, by being unrepentant West Side yuppie scum. Rather than say, "Hey, you! Weenie boy! You listen, why not send us a few bucks?" they ladle on the smirking LA stereotypes, apparently thinking they're striking a chord instead of a nerve.

Never mind that their contributor levels are the new-agey and vomitously sanctimonious "Angel" and "Arch-Angel." Never mind that they burn off hours of public radio air time by running what in effect are ads for the companies that have contributed prizes. Never mind that the station manager -- who sees fit to be on-air twenty-four freaking hours a day during a pledge drive -- has a lisping New York voice that could drive Fran Dresher to beat her head against a wall until she slips comfortably into a coma.

Oh, no. What really galls me is the plea that starts, "For less than the cost of your daily latte…" My daily latte. Not coffee -- which I don't drink, but at least it doesn't sound snotty -- but "latte." And this is for the thousand dollar contribution, meaning my "daily latte" is supposed to run me three bucks a pop. If I'm dumb enough to be plunking down three bucks a day for some trendy puke-warm swill, what in the name of God would I be doing listening to NPR? There's funny-funny sex talk just a half-twist down the dial, you idiots, and I'd be listening to that.

So, screw you, public radio. I'll keep listening, because "Morning Edition" and "All Things Considered" and "This American Life" and "CarTalk" and, God help me, "A Prairie Home Companion" are the only things I can find on the radio anymore that don't make me want to plow my car into the back of the cement mixer in front of me. But, God, if you're going to make the assumption that your entire audience is made up of pony-tailed, latte-sucking industry weasels, then I'm going to make the assumption that you're plenty connected enough to get by without my hundred bucks.