Tell Donald Trump I know his heart. What he told me before, I have it in my heart. I am angry and I do not know why, but I suspect it has a lot to do with television.
I am tired of the veiwing. Our favorite series are killed; Gilligan’s Island is dead, Star Trek is cancelled. Seinfeld died with no good show at the end. The old men are all dead, Red Skelton, Jackie Gleason, Ed Sullivan. It is the young men like Justin Bieber who say yes or no.
He who led on the young men, Michael Jackson, is dead.
It is fall, and we have no promising new comedy series; the little children are not watching anyway. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills, and have no reception, no streaming, and there is nothing for them on television anyhow.
No one knows where they are—perhaps they are bored to death with the election. I want to have time to look for my children, to see how many I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the disenchanted with cable.
Hear me, my chiefs! I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will watch television no more.