Andrew L. Pincus: Counting on Rachel to see us through troubled times

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LENOX — I'm panting. Sweating. Drooling. Heart on fire.

It's 9 p.m. Rachel's on.

Stick it to `em, Rachel. Get those bleepity-bleeps. Off to jail with them.

Incriminated! Intimidated! Investigated! Interrogated!

Implicated! Impeached! Imprisoned!

Wow. You did it, Rachel. You nailed `em. You got 'em good.

See the bums taken off. See the witnesses, the marshals, the cops. See the lawyers, the photographers. See Giuliani. See Igor and Lev. See the Orange Creature from the Swamp!

See Spot run.

Oops, wrong script. That's what happens when you get the Rachel Maddow habit. You become a blubbering idiot.

I was a babe in the woods, ripe for corruption. I'd never paid much attention to TV news, except for momentous events like 9/11. I ingested my news from newspapers I trusted.

Then came impeachment. As news, that was 9/11-sized. Maybe bigger, with accusers, excusers, perpetrators and villains parading across the living-room screen. Democracy hung in the balance. People said: Watch Rachel.

O.K., my day's labors were done, it was too early for bed. I made the fatal mistake. I tuned in Rachel.

Why would powerful TV people want to destroy a man's innocence?

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Oh, Rachel. Those fluttering eyelids. That jutting chin. That jabbing hand with the jabbing pen. The smirks, the glee, the assemblage of facts and fools, the film clips (over and over). The panels of text from New York Times, Washington Post (WaPo), Wall Street Journal, Politico, depositions, White House memos. The voice-over. The interviews. The tweets.

Hovering over all, the Orange Creature from the Swamp.

Rudy, Mitch, Lindsay: the three stooges. The three monkeys: See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. No quid pro quo, no obstruction, witch hunt, hoax. Biden did it, Ukraine did it, Pelosi did it, Bigfoot did it, Santa Claus did it, `tis the season

Oh, Rachel, you see me through troubled times. Thy counsel maketh me to chew the carpet. My blood pressure riseth and I trembleth when the traffic light turneth orange. Surely, thy wisdom and thy fury shall follow me unto the end of my days, or of the world, whichever cometh first. Orange is to you what red is to the matador's bull.

Speaking of bull, isn't this just preaching to the choir? I don't watch Hannity. Why would a Hannity believer believe Rachel?

We love Ivanka. We love Jared. They teach us family values. We love Mar-a-Lago. It's a perfect vacation spot. We love tax cuts. They lift the average Joe.

Oh, it's beautiful. The Swamp Creature is a genius, his wisdom unmatched. We know it is so because he tells us it is so. Putin is our friend. Walls keep us safe. Charities fill our pockets. The rain on the plain is a hurricane that falls mainly in the brain that thinks it plain the hurricane is in Alabama.

Night after night, I think Rachel has nailed the coffin shut. But no, there he is again, the Swamp Creature, risen from the dead. He's like the ghost of poor Petrushka, hovering over the marketplace, thumbing his nose at the crowd. Or he's an overinflated balloon, ready to pop at the first prick.

Rachel is fluttering those eyelids again. Hoo, boy. In the supermarket, if a woman did that to me

Oh, Rachel, I'm your slave. You leave me panting, sweating, drooling. Heart on fire. You make me powerless, helpless. If I can't even turn the remote off, what hope is there for turning off the insanity you pump into my head?

And so to bed.

Sweet dreams.

Andrew L. Pincus writes about classical music for The Eagle and is an occasional contributor to the editorial pages.


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