As news has reared its ugly head recently, putinesque, one begins to realize we are living in interesting times. I’ve noticed that magazines and newspapers can’t keep up with the pace.  It’s one flaming brown sack of shit left on our stoop after another. Reading this week’s New Yorker is almost comical, insofar as they’re three sacks of shit behind in their reportage, and fading fast. The newspaper isn’t doing much better. Hell, the net can barely keep up; what chances do papers and magazines have?

And so, my friends, I’ve been searching desperately for calmer waters, where I can spend a little time in respite from the turmoil and strife of daily life; somewhere that I can recharge in order to face the next hour or half hour of gigantic, scary change. And I’ve found it. I’ve found it in Fred Thompson’s forehead.

Here is the picture that led me to peace:

Fred Thompson

Fred Thompson

Not very impressive, you say? Just some Republican/movie star hack who rose beyond his level of incompetence? Well, you’d be right, but you’re not looking at the big picture. Or rather, you’re not looking at a small part of the big picture that you should be looking at, viz:

Freds head

Fred's head

The magnificence should be coming into view, but let me direct your attention closer:

Like ripples on a still, deep pond

Like ripples on a still, deep pond

And even closer:

Freds rippling forehead, peace be upon you

Fred's rippling forehead

And now, a quick pull back, like that one tulip film that pulls back to show shocking thousands of tulips, to blow your mind and calm your fears:

Fredlines, peace be upon you and yours

Fredlines, peace be upon you and yours

When all seems hopeless, and misery and fear lurk in every shadow, Fredlines will be here for you. Good night.

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