From Monday’s editorial page in the local rag:

I bark at my dog. My stomach thunders in revolt. Awake at night, interrupted by the occasional nightmare. Blood work back, doctor smiles knowingly. You’ve got it. But you’re not alone. I’m seeing a lot of it. We call it PSA. No acronyms, doc, what’s PSA? Pre-Emptive Strike Anxiety. Oh, jeez, how’d I get it? Well, she says, you’re fearful and apprehensive. Of what, I demand to know.

Only speculating, this is a new disease, but I suspect you’re afraid of a president appointed by the Supreme Court, challenged by the language arts, and obsessed with carpet bombing non-nuclear, underdeveloped countries with nasty leaders.

Oh. Well, you’re right. That dude and his friends scare me. What do I do, doc? A tough disease calls for a tough medicine, she warned. Watch Fox News, read Cal Thomas, fly two American flags—the bigger the better—and call me in the morning. I cringed. No, I said. The cure is worse than the disease. I barked at my dog.

I have, it seems, cleared out any and all original thoughts from my head. This fella’s will have to do.