This concludes your broadcast day

The other night I was watching the latest political circus on TV – this time the Republican National Convention – and I became so depressed that I literally lay awake all night. No, it’s not Republicans that bother me, after all, we’re all part of the same stew. Let’s face it, neither candidate is exactly Abraham Lincoln. Or Mary Todd Lincoln, for that matter. Or even Mary Lincoln’s poodle, Ulysses S. Puddles.

What bothers me is the race in general; the lies, the exaggerations, the smears, the actions on the part of both parties that we were taught in Sunday School were wrong. It’s a national acceptance of the absurd, and it’s really depressing.

So, last night, instead of tuning in to the news, I decided to channel surf for a little mindless entertainment.

"Welcome to Mysteries of the Ages." (Cool.) "Tonight we take you into a house in which the residents claim they saw the ghost of Admiral Belevedere Crock baking tapioca pudding." (I’ve seen this one. They later interview the ghost of Admiral Crock, who says it couldn’t have been him because he had bowling league that night.)

"Then we’ll follow the journey of Dr. Lance Schultz, who has spent his life searching not for the Holy Grail, but for its little known accouterment, the Somewhat Blessed Serving Spoon. And in our last segment: Is Ned Johnson, shop foreman at T&G Metalworks, actually the mysterious Bigfoot? Scientists are hopeful."

"Now on ‘Trading Spaces,’ it’s time for Erv and Matilda Jones to see their brand new living room, redesigned by their neighbors, Mark and Myrna Gardner. Mr. and Mrs. Jones, open your eyes and take a look around!

(Matilda Jones, after a long pause) "In the name of all that is holy! …My eyes burn with the foul stench of paisley drapes and bizarre wall hangings. I try to turn away but … but I can’t! I am transfixed, frozen in a Medusa-like gaze … The horror of it all! The horror."

"It appears Iron Chef Sakai is basting his hen in a spicy yogurt sauce, while creating a perfect balance with tangerine aku miso paste, a delicacy throughout Asia. Meanwhile, his American challenger is spreading a peanut-buttery substance onto a piece of bread, and … and it looks like he’s opening a bag of Doritos …"

"You can’t have a happy garden AND happy bugs. To effectively annihilate all garden pests, including weevils, aphids, cutworms, parsleyworm, pearslugs, spider mites, thrips, ants and moths, use Ultra-Home and Garden Pest Destroyer. A message from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day —"

"Will you be ready for the Apocalypse? I know I will. And you can be, too, with Apoca-Lip Gloss, from Maybelline! Don’t go through eternity with dry, dull—"

"This is the way it’s going to be, see. You and me, we’re gonna take a walk, see. And you’re gonna do exactly as I say, got it? And you ain’t gonna say a woid, got it? You gonna be a gooood boy, ain’t dat right, Louie? Yeah, a goooooood boy. I say, ain’t dat right, Louie?"

"Rrrruff!"

"And I heard the voice of God say to me, He said, ‘Oral, you are humbled in my sight.’ And I was so overcome that I had James pull the stretch limo over, and I gave a homeless man my Pop Tart at a substantial discou—"

Click, click

"This concludes another broadcast day. Better luck tomorrow."

What me worry?

My newest worry —

Wait a sec. Now that I think about it, "worry-wart" may not be politically correct. Perhaps I ought to mention that by using the term, "worry-wart," I mean absolutely no offense to those with warts. I had a wart once myself until it came off in a bizarre Slinky accident. Enough said.

Anyway, so what’s my newest worry (not that this implies you should care)? Cholesterol.

In September I have my next cholesterol test. My last check was about two years ago, when it was determined that my good cholesterol was way, way, low ("Good cholesterol is what keeps you from getting heart disease!" the doctor said excitedly, sending my stress engine zooming into overdrive, immediately decreasing my good cholesterol another three points).

What happened, I haven’t a clue, as I had just spent a year dieting and exercising, and had lost nearly 25 pounds. Why did my good cholesterol abandon me when I was behaving so well? Could it have been the fact that I had eaten enough fast food the previous 20 years to fill Mile High Stadium? Could it have been the homemade pizzas, or the lengthy period in which I drank more alcohol than God would have needed for the great flood?

Or could it be the fact that I’m a worry-wart? "Worry" is second cousin to "stress," and stress is step-brother to anxiety, which is nephew to bad cholesterol, which is uncle to prescription drugs, which is sister to huge medical debt, which is little brother to anxiety, which is step-brother to stress, which, as I mentioned earlier, is second cousin to worry. It’s the worry-cycle, if you will. Or even if you won’t, it’s the worry-cycle.

So did "worry," in fact, contribute to my bad cholesterol? And if so, is worrying about my bad cholesterol making my cholesterol even worse? By writing this column, am I actually reducing my good cholesterol? Should I be getting workman’s comp?

"When did you start feeling pains in your chest?" a doctor once asked me.

"Oh, about five, six years ago."

"I think it’s caused by stress and worry in your life. When did you first start feeling worried?"

"The first time I felt a pain in my chest."

Minutes later I was at the pharmacy awaiting a prescription for depression. While I’m waiting, I decide to get my blood pressure checked – you know, in that little chair — when a burly guy the size of three linebackers takes the seat. He probably eats entire crates of French Fries for lunch, and yet has better cholesterol than I do. (I should note here that eating a crate of French Fries for lunch would not be in your best interest.)

Me and Dolores (my anti-depressants are expensive and will be at my side for years to come; might as well name them) arrive home, and after reading the cautions, I conclude that the only time of day when I’m not doing something that will interfere with the drug – eating, drinking, moving, breathing – is the one minute between 8:47 and 8:48 p.m. So, at precisely 8:47 and one second, I down my first pill.

That night, I wake up around 1 a.m. My stomach felt like I swallowed a combine, which harvests all night and into the next day. The following day’s no different. How depressing, I thought. The drugs weren’t exactly brightening my mood, so I decided to try it on my own.

That was about a year ago, and I still hear God telling me to hand over my troubles and woes to Him, to let Him carry the burden; it’s in His job description, He says.

"That’s easy for You to say," I respond. "See, Lord, it just isn’t in my wiring to release my burdens. Maybe it’s a lack of faith, but frankly, I just don’t know how people do it."

And God replies unto me, "Welcome to the planet Earth. Of the millions of people here, do you know how many are currently allowing me to carry all their burdens on my shoulders, to lift all their anxieties and worries, leaving them in a sort of pre-heavenly bliss?"

"Huh uh."

"Eleven! I look around and see all the sadness and pain. I want to shout out, ‘I love you people!! Don’t you get it? I want to carry your burdens! Your life here is brief! Don’t waste it being miserable!’

"Can you imagine if everyone took those words to heart? No more war, no more hunger, no more fear of death … no more worries."