It just doesn’t matter. In so many ways.

That, and nothing ever works. Nothing. Ever. Works. My optimism is sorely tested, as you may have gathered by the opening salvo of shibboleth.

The level of bullshit daily assaulting my senses is oppressive. For instance, I just saw a clip of John Boehner say, “We’re really not the other party. We’re the alternative party.” This was enough to get me to flip to something, anything … in this case, the opening of “The Tender Trap,” with Frank Sinatra wearing a spiffy suit and hat, walking across a featureless landscape, singing and generally being what passed for cool in 1955.

There’s less bullshit in that than John Boehner.

I’m sorry for vulgar language. Though perhaps it tells a sad tale of our times, sometimes only profanity sets the proper tone. Bullshit. I suppose I could have written “flimfladdle” or “gobbledygook” or, as a high-school math teacher was once fond of saying, “bullyrot.”

At least, memories of Mrs. Mills got me laughing. Imagine what would happen if I was sitting at a bar, knocking back shots, and someone said Peyton Manning is going to suck in the Super Bowl.

“Aw, bullyrot, Harry. You don’t know your fanny from Rhode Island.”

If anything would change the subject from pro football to gay marriage at Tony’s, it’s that.

Sometimes a man has to let a few bombs fly. Verbally, I mean.

Sinatra and David Wayne are chatting, Sinatra shaving. The house, or apartment, is furnished exactly the way cheap motels were in the 1970s, probably because they were built in the 1950s by people who watched Sinatra movies. By the way, while Sinatra was shaving, Wayne was drinking a martini.

I haven’t shaved yet.