April 2, 2017 upon watching Martha Radditz on a Sunday morning show
Oh, dear Martha Radditz, you always look so pained. The world weighs ever so heavily on you; your angst is surely not feigned.
But darling, darling lady, you have brought this on yourself. Somewhere along your path of choice, from Zanzibar to Quelph,
you’ve studied, worried, fretted, wailed from every single rooftop, until your voice, and loud concerns have led us to shout, “Stop!”
Stop your constant warnings! Your unfounded great concern that the rest of the world is unable to listen, unable to discern
just what we need to worry ’bout, just what we need to think. You’re making yourself quite ill, my dear, predicting all will sink.
Find some good antacid, sip a little soda. Get some rest, put up your feet. Read a little Yoda.
Ask your massage therapist to smooth your furrowed brow, un-hunch your thin, stooped shoulders. Find a comfy hammock upon a tropical bough.
Put all away, Dearheart. Take a long vacation. Please leave it to someone else to report upon our nation.
We shall be fine. We shall survive. The USA is strong. All will be well, my anxious gal, not every pol is wrong.
Not every story needs your twist, nor does your stomach need it. Chill out, Miss Martha, chill out, retire. Let someone other anxious, talking head tell us how to heed it.