A New York Times-CBS News poll last week found the American people gloomier and more pessimistic then we've been in a long time, perhaps since we emerged from our duct-tape hidey holes in Year 3 of SFB.
There's indeed much to be glum about. You know what it is. You know whose fault it is. You know this bought-and-paid-for bunch that's in there now doesn't have the know-how or the want-to, or the nads, or the sense of responsibility, to get it up and running again. We're all screwed, you know that.
You know it's only a matter of time till the Hee-Haw theme — "Gloom, despair and agony on me, deep dark depression, excessive misery" — becomes our National Anthem, and those of us under $250K are obliged to just wander off disconsolate, like in a remake of the Joads and their grapes, kicking cans down the road.
Oh, it's bad. Bad.
But today's topic isn't the fubar condition our condition has got itself in. Today's topic is that there's always another way of looking at s--t. How about we accentuate the positive for a change of pace? Leave worry on the doorstep, go over and check out the view from the sunny side.
I just got back from over there and here's some of what I saw.
Alien abductions are way down.
Your state has only two-thirds as many congressmen as it did before 1960, but all of them are truly embarrassing now whereas only half of them used to be.
Gas prices are way up, but even so, good whiskey costs 20 times as much.
I have it on good authority that it'll be the meek, not the Kochs, who inherit the earth.
Don't feel lonesome if you were recently redistricted from a knothead to a son-of-a-bitch. Everybody else was too, or the other way around.
At worst a mixed blessing, the air traffic controllers are freaking less, napping more.
Thalidomide is over and done with so you don't have to worry about bringing forth a second base.
Brownie is no longer at FEMA so you'll probably not have to live in excrement in the Superdome for any length of time.
Twelve pelicans are still alive in or around the Gulf of Mexico. That's the rumor anyhow.
Every single one of the Too Big to Fails who get 8-figure bonuses have little bitty wee-wees.
Some of the Too Big to Fails, ashamed but loath to admit it, have taken to attempting to show their dedication to the conservative ethic by polishing their own yachts.
Everything else, maybe, but they can't screw you out of your appointed place in the Potter's Field.
You're a lot less likely now to be shot in the face by the vice president of the United States.
Surely some of the televangelists you've supported over the years will see their Christian duty and return the favor in your time of need, with rebates and other assistance and outreach.
You'll probably never be delayed again by encountering new highway construction.
It's either science or we'll all be dancing around a pot. Fifty-fifty at this point.
The plentiful bedbugs are good to season your rock soup with.
Vermin are a good source of protein. Run into Liddy, he'll cook you a rat.
Wiping with $100 bills turns out to be a lot scratchier, less effective, and less gratifying than those who YouTube themselves doing it thought it would be.
Most of the toadies and apologists for these big-shots are deeply unhappy because they're required by law to register as pervs.
The employment picture has brightened considerably if you trained to fetch up rocks for prolifers to stone abortion getters and givers.
Yes, debtors' prisons are a gleam in the Republican eye, in place of Social Security, but they're a long way yet from enactment and funding. Two or three years at least.
After he's forced you at gunpoint to give David Barton your heed, Huckabee ought to be good at suppertime for at least a Velveeta-ed Hi Ho and a cot.
Change your handle to Howard Roark and Rep. Ryan will adopt you as protégé and make you a posse goon.
The death panels haven't yet kinked a single granny's feeding tube.
Such attitude might result in cows licking you to nothingness, as happened with Lot's wife. But there's a sort of immortality in that.
Another advantage of being down and out is that identify theft — that is, someone stealing yours — becomes something you sort of look forward to.
It'll be funny in retrospect, like MacArthur, like McCarthy, like "Pray with me, Henry" and Haig declaring himself in charge. Like Jerry and Pat after 9-11. The point of "The Producers" — it's always funny in retrospect. All of it is.