Remember the sunny, slow days of youth when a disaster was something that happened only once in awhile, maybe every ten or twenty years?
Now, it happens every week.
I can’t keep up.
The newest is bird flu.
It’s gonna wipe us all out.
We’ve had so many disasters lately that the American populace have gotten Chicken-Little-ized. You know, Chicken Little, the chic who ran around screaming “The sky is falling!”
Turn the TV on, and hear the late Johnny Cash singing that sad and dreadfully ponderous old Simon and Garfunkel song, “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.” Droning on endlessly for disaster relief.
I’m all for relief.
But there’ve been so many disasters Cash can’t keep up—even though he’s dead. He has a brand new mushrooming career singing disaster relief songs, but the poor guy is dead.
This is perhaps the gloomiest time in ten decades to be an American, a country noted historically for the opposite…..its brash optimism.
Believe you me, there’s a limit to it.
Okay! You’re sick of being sad, sick of being afraid, of this, of that, or that might happen, or what if this happens? You don’t want to sound crass, neither do I, like we don’t care, or like we’re insensitive like the Bush Administration was accused of being. Granted, they didn’t act during Hurricane Katrina.
But how can we plan for everything?
What else can happen besides bird flu?
Let’s see. Terrorists might get an atomic bomb.
Global warming causes Florida to get pounded harder by storms even as we try to pave it over, which helps to cause the global warming.
Monkey droppings in Brazil could be picked up by fleas and mutate and make the transfer to humans causing a pandemic of terminal itching disease in people.
Honduras, using a secret weapon, invades the United States to gain control of our oil reserves, captures Washington D.C., and attempts to install a Democratic form of government.
Or, our water supply globally is tainted by a microorganism that gradually and over time causes peoples’ necks to swell until your head explodes like an over-ripe pimple.
Or, the sun overheats, blows up, and we’re all plunged into eternal freezing darkness, and you decide that before you expire you’re going to get even and do in your mother in law.
Bird flu may happen.
But I refuse to be a gloom-sayer. Repeat after me. Sing along with me merrily. “I’m a little teapot short and stout…here is my handle..here is my spout!”
Practice saying every day. ‘The world is a wonderful place. I will enjoy this day.”
We’re all going to experience a solid two weeks now without a new disaster of some kind somewhere.