A Charlie Brown Christmas, while charming, is really terrible.

I understand that part of the allure of gathering the tots around the tube every yuletide is to reflect back upon memories of simpler times while appreciating the historical significance of the cartoon, but c’mon: the production value of the thing is just awful.

Whenever I catch a Charles Shultz biography or similar documentary, they are quick to point out that, in a radical move uncommon to the industry, Charlie Brown cartoons used actual kids rather than grown-up voice actors for the audio track. Neat idea, I guess, but did they have to use the least convincing children on the planet for the job? The lack of trained child voice actors in the heyday of animation results in Shultzian quirks that, thanks to broadcast television’s annual promotion, remain with us to this day: long, awkward pauses; weird voice inflections; and a final speech by Linus that’s delivered so quickly it seems like he has to pee or something.

Also (and this is an aside not solely related to the original Christmas show), using child voiceovers necessitates whole new casts for future iterations of Charlie Brown cartoons. After they air A Charlie Brown Christmas, they air I Want a Dog for Christmas, Charlie Brown! with an entirely different cast. I realize that the latter was made decades after the former and that it would be nearly impossible to use the same cast for both, regardless of age, but something tells me it would be easier to emulate the original voices had they been well composed by professional voice actors. Just my two cents.

However silly these kids sound, though, I still watch A Charlie Brown Christmas every year (in all its terrible glory). I don’t know, maybe it’s that I’m a sucker for convention and to watch Peanuts cartoons on major American holidays is the most conventional way a middle class white kid can spend his youth. Maybe my relatively newfound discovery of jazz music has drawn me once again to the cartoon’s soundtrack. Or maybe I just like to watch for the purpose of participating in the greatest of all American pastimes, rampant and unfounded criticism.

Look out for my Christmas post next year, in which I attempt to discern the origins of this new-fangled “Rerun” character. That kid sucks.

As I grew up, I moved on to National Public Radio. First, it was Morning Edition in the mornings to keep me awake when I had to rise at 5:00 a.m. for high school, then it was whatever was playing on the station in Gainesville (Science Friday was and is a personal favorite). Now, I listen whenever I think about it since they did away with classical music and switched to jazz in the evenings on WUSF.

Either way, though, I don’t listen as much as I should. It’s not because of a lack of relevant and interesting programming; it’s because they ask for money all the damn time and I’m sick of it.

When one of the weekly pledge drives crops up on my radio, it’s an instant turn off. Whenever one of these events in monotony arrives, it’s all I can do not to imagine Ira Glass in his big, dumb hipster glasses with a tin cup begging for change outside of a 7-11.

I love public radio, but I think there should be a way to give those who actually donate a way to listen to all of their fine programming without degrading yourself and selling tote bags and DVDs for hundreds of dollars. It’s unbecoming.

Remember when CNN Headline News was, you know, actually a news show? Now, HLN has devolved into a hodgepodge of superficial news and uneducated opinions. Any given half hour of programming consists of about 20 percent news and 80 percent Twitter whoring. Look, I understand that it’s chic to employ social networking on the tube nowadays, but when your show is focused more on what Ethel May in Alabama thinks about building some mosque in New York rather than actually building the mosque in New York, I think your priorities are a bit backward.

The campus is nestled mere blocks from the hallowed halls of Tropicana Field with a quaint view of Bayboro Harbor and buildings that seem younger than I am, which is always nice when you consider that such edifices are more likely to have clean bathrooms. Also, their Chick-fil-A is on the waterfront, which I think is the perfect way to enjoy overpriced (but admittedly delicious) chicken.

But the best part? YOU SHOULD FEEL THE AIR CONDITIONING. I’m not kidding. I walked across 6th Avenue South after my appointment with human resources so I could scope out the building where most of my classes will be, and I’m pretty sure I somehow fell asleep and entered into that dream from Inception with all the snow. Trust me, after parading around in my avian disguise for the amusement of strangers in temperatures above one hundred degrees day in and day out, the frigid respite of the Peter R. Wallace Florida Center for Teachers is quite a welcome surprise.

In an unrelated matter, I’m pretty sure the hardest part about adjusting to J-school will be only using one space between sentences.

During that brief time when McDonalds’ one dollar sandwich was a bona-fide double cheeseburger instead of the flimsy McDouble, I was there. When Wendy’s introduced its delectable double stack for 99 cents, I was there. And yes, when Burger King countered with its one dollar quarter pound double cheeseburger, I was there.

I fought beside brave trans fats at the battle of five dollar all-you-can-eat pancakes on the banks of the mighty IHOP; I flew with fearless endless chicken wings over the perilous Ale House ravine; and I landed with the super value squadron on the shores of the Taco Bell atoll.

However, all of my service in the delicious food corps has led me to a higher consciousness of edible values. And this, friends, is why I have one hell of a tasty bone to pick with Steak ‘n Shake.

Recently, these folks have advertised four meals under four bucks (though with tax and a Coke, you’re looking at increased minimums). Of these four meals, three consist of burgers and fries. The burger options include a single steak burger with cheese and bacon, a double steak burger with cheese, and a triple steak burger sans cheese or bacon.

So, if my well-trained palate and checkbook serve me correctly, these Steak ‘n Shake crooks would have me believe that a slice of cheese is equal to the cost of a couple slices of bacon, which is also equal to the cost of a patty of beef.

Now, I realize that employing transitivity in the delicate field of value pricing is a risky venture. This said, I cannot in good conscience allow this travesty of the taste bud to go unnoticed.

However, when it’s 2:00 a.m. and I’m in dire need of a steak accompanied by a shake of some variety, I’m afraid I’m pretty well painted into a corner. You may have won the battle, Steak ‘n Shake, but trust me: you won’t win the war.

Oh, dear. Apart from having the decade-old phenomenon BonziBUDDY read the dry voice over script, I can see no worse way of advertising this movie. It’s like having a combination of Ben Stein and all of my old college professors advertise a film that that they in no way can relate to.

Maybe this is just the way movies were promoted then. Man, if that’s the case I am sure glad to live in the new millennium.

Last night, for example, Ian and I went to eat at The Top in Gainesville. It’s the kind of place that, when ordering, the server is sure to let you know that their food is all natural and animal friendly. I personally don’t understand how you can be friendly with an animal if you’re eating it, but God knows that hasn’t stopped me yet.

Anyway, throughout the restaurant are multitudes of super skinny chicks with super short hair, super tacky clothes, and a super ability to make me angry that I’m not clued into the “in” crowd like they are.

Maybe it’s because the hipster chic runs rampant throughout Gainesville and I’ve come to accept the fact that during a zombie apocalypse, one such lady might see it necessary to procreate with me. Maybe it’s because I’m a political science major and these types are always to my right and left (mostly my left). Hell, maybe it’s because I’m secretly a hardcore vegan who wants to wear chucks and ride my bike everywhere for the sake of the environment.

But don’t count on that last one, I like meat and air conditioning too much.

Oh wait, it would be going up against Jay Leno’s new show. Never mind, I think Congress is more entertaining as it is.

Billy Mays, you deserved better than this. In the wake of Michael Jackson’s trip to the preteen farm in the sky (or, as it were, deep below the ground in the special section of Hell), your passing garnered nothing more than a footnote in the media.

I watched Jackson’s memorial yesterday. Mariah Carey and Lionel Ritchie performed. Thousands flocked to see his gold casket. They closed down a Los Angeles freeway for his funeral procession, for Christ sake. People seem to forget the fact that mere months ago, this dude(?) was a monster in the eyes of society. I know it’s not kosher to speak ill of the dead, but in my defense Michael Jackson looked like he died 15 years ago. His heart was just catching up with the times.

But Billy Mays? There had never been a bad thing to say about this bastion of capitalism. He never slept with children. He was never a weird guy. The closest he ever came to buying a chimp named Bubbles was doing that TV show with Anthony Sullivan. He was just an honest man with a timeless beard that peddled mighty products that helped Americans every single day.

America, you sicken me. Sure, Jackson may have busted a move now and again. But his legacy seems vastly overrated. His music, in my opinion, was all right. But it was nothing compared to the stain-fighting powers of OxyClean, the adhesive abilities of Mighty Mendit, or the absorbency of Impact Gel.

In the end, though, Billy Mays’ celebrity status caught up with him. Because when God called the toll-free hotline for Michael Jackson’s kicking of the bucket, he threw in the passing of a television legend absolutely free. Just paid shipping and handling.