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.