Yesterday I was about to note that composers such as Haydn — 104 symphonies — Mozart and Beethoven make me realize just how little I've accomplished in life. I demurred.
Yet I've suddenly come to understand that I'm vastly worthier than any of those eminently gifted gentlemen. For according to Donald Trump, Mitch the Grim Reaper, Palin the death panelist and swarms of their ghoulish friends, I was born to die in the noble service of saving the United States economy — the world's largest, greatest, best.
Could Haydn, Mozart or Beethoven have made claim to such an esteemed and historic accomplishment? Pshaw. They were but pikers.
Wildly. Dead.