Letter: Dear Mr. Network Sequencing Agent

To Whom It May Concern:

I'm not sure who to write this letter to. Let me first start by saying this: You're an idiot. Perhaps it's sexist for me to assume you are a man, because any sense of nurturing or sensitivity that occurs naturally in the female gender appears to have been absolved. I'm not sure if your job is big or small, but I would surmise it's some exalted secretarial position that always leaves you wanting for more. So to whoever you are, "Mr. Network Sequencing Agent", please consider this:

It's Christmas. Frosty the Snowman is a TV classic that even I enjoyed as a kid, so I'm sure it was a no-brainer to schedule this wintry wonder the week before Christmas. Everyone's happy right? Thirty-something parents reminisce, and adorable offspring watch in wonder of the magic of that old silk hat they found. The thing is, the old silk hat doesn't do laundry, so your older demographic has a higher chance of tuning out. Please consider that 8 year olds don't tune out. They are ready for whatever you dish out next, which in this case was a bloody re-enactment of a crime scene perpetuated on a wife by her husband, or in this case, (because your audience was still single-digit-aged kids high on Christmas Spirit), someone's dad.

As a parent, I try not to buy into the hypersensitive paranoia that scratches across the border of common sense. I'm reasonable okay? But this isn't a case of over-reactive parents. Some news is meant for adults, adults who can balance their morbid curiosity of filial love gone terribly horribly wrong, with years and years of relationships, neighboring, traveling, schooling, and working to realize this: most people are good. Horrible things happen, yes, but most people are good.

I have had to repeat to my daughter how old I am, how many places I've lived, traveled, and worked, and how I have never even known someone who had done something like hacking another living soul to pieces.

But to an 8 year old kid, with a handful of relationships, carefully nurtured by parents and family, well it practically blew her brain to think that something like that could ever happen. After the flashing of images, she was nauseous, and for the past 2 nights her giggling comes to a halt when she squeaks out: Mom, those bad pictures are still in my brain. How do I get them out? Plus she's worried that she's being watched, and is afraid to go to bed even after I gave her a kick-A bedroom makeover.

I wish you knew my kid so you could understand that she is not a stupid drama queen, and that she is a good, sweet, and loving soul. I wish you understood that you are effectively a flock of seagulls with gullets full of loose, fibrous, wet waste that you just dumped on her head, and probably a family heirloom sweater she was wearing. You get the picture.

So please eat shit. I hate you right now. I don't even know what network is responsible (longer story) but I would urge you to bore your cartoon market with some local news, or maybe an all boys choir, to ensure that you aren't infringing on our happy, sacred, reveling Christmas Spirit that we occasionally entertain through the media.

Passionately,

Mrs. Olsen