I have reached that rare state where speech fails me—not from enlightenment, but from sheer news fatigue.

The circuitry is fried.

This is it. I’m out. The news is on a strict starvation diet.

Yesterday’s breaking news announced that Agent Orange would graciously delay his deadline to attack Iranian power plants by five days. A courtesy pause, presumably, so everyone can hydrate and locate the nearest bunker.

Over the weekend, threats flew like cocktail chatter at a very tense party. By Monday, we were told, calmly, that negotiations were underway for a complete and total resolution of Middle East hostilities. Historically, that phrase pairs well with a stiff drink and taking immediate cover in the rabbit hole.

Just days earlier: bomb within 48 hours unless the Strait of Hormuz opens. Nothing says idle threat and steady leadership like an ultimatum tied to global oil traffic deemed by a dementia patient.

And then, because satire is apparently understaffed, came word that ICE is assisting TSA at airports. I reread it twice, half expecting a punchline. Believable only if you maintain a robust fantasy life.

So I’m pivoting.

March Madness is now my breaking news. The Miami Open is my foreign policy. My bandwidth is reserved for scores, upsets, line calls, and the faint delusion that my bracket still has integrity.

I cannot process another headline that reads like speculative fiction written on a dare. The world feels less like a system and more like a group project no one prepared for.

And yes, we have somehow become the punchline in a joke that stopped being funny.

So I choose a steady stream of games, matches, highlights, replays, analysis, and endless updates where rules exist, outcomes end, and the worst thing that happens is your team loses.

Call it avoidance. Call it self-preservation.

If the world insists on behaving like a reality show, I’m switching to something with a scoreboard and a damn good cocktail.