Fitz: Cutting the cord, one cable news show at a time

“I am not,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Your wife.”

I thought she looked familiar. “Shush. I’m listening to Rachel. I need a cranial cleanse after watching Tucker. And I’m not ‘glued’ to the television! Our remote is glued to me, thank you very much.” I held up our remote, firmly glued to the palm of my right hand. “You’ll get this baby when you pry it from my dead, cold fingers.”

Do you rudely shush family members just so you can hear the news?

Constantly.

My addiction to cable news is destroying my life. And that’s why I’m taking time off next week to go to rehab. Even before the Trump carnival rolled onto the airwaves, I was hooked on cable news, planted like a barrel cactus on my couch in front of the Samsung. I’ve lost friends, I’ve lost track of time and I’ve broken 23 remotes by throwing them at Bill O’Reilly’s sour puss. And now, the worst: I have “remote control thumb,” a terrible, crippling affliction that is more painful than bone spurs.

Cable news shows are like crack to a news junkie like me. They really should air warnings.

“Cable news is highly addictive. Cable news may cause agitation, nausea, weight gain, rage, aggravation, paranoia, divorce, suicidal thoughts, heart palpitations, civil wars, anxiety and panic attacks. If these conditions persist see Dr. Sanjay Gupta on CNN.”

My family intervened when they noticed I hadn’t moved from the sofa since November and mourning doves were nesting in my beard.

My rehab intake interview was a breeze: Do you yell at your television?

I do.

Do you suffer from FONK, the Fear of Not Knowing what’s happening in Nambia right this second?

I do.

Do you know Nambia doesn’t really exist?

Tell the president.

Can you name Anderson Cooper’s mother?

Gloria Laura Vanderbilt.

Do you repeat news stories over and over to friends?

And I make them watch the news clips on my smartphone.

Do you have friends?

Only on payday.

Do you put on pants when you leave the house?

Why leave the house? Do you know how to get Super Glue off your hand?

“Crossfire” was my gateway drug to cable news addiction. Next thing I know I’m watching pompous pundits pontificate like pugilists around the clock. You know you’re addicted to cable news when you go to your window every night, throw it open and shout, “I’m mad as hell— and I’m not going to watch cable news again!— At least not until tomorrow when ‘Fox and Friends’ comes back on!”

My addiction is hereditary. My great aunt, Fanny Fitzsimmons, was a wealthy hermit who fell in love with her favorite news anchor, Walter Cronkite. Every night she’d set the table for herself and her CBS boyfriend and proceed to enjoy unilateral conversations about the declining state of the world with the paramour who lived inside her Zenith. In 1969, she was committed into the care of the state. Stark raving mad. Today she’s a regular commentator on “Hannity.”

You can see why I’m desperate to try this upscale rehab place. I like the slogan on their brochure: “Rancho Weinstein: Where ignorance truly is bliss.” On the front there’s a picture of a happy man taking an ax to his cable box.

It’s going to be hell going without cable news, not knowing, hour by deliciously intoxicating hour, who’s getting fired, indicted or investigated; who’s getting arraigned, bamboozled, conned, sued, denounced, accused, double-crossed, duped, forsaken, humiliated, extradited, exposed, betrayed, set up, subpoenaed, suckered or snared. And that’s just one hour.

Beyond treating cable news addicts, I learned Rancho Weinstein offers a rehab program for Twitter addicts. Something someone might look into when they hit bottom.

With the right treatment and the right attitude, I will control my cable news addiction. My first goal is to limit my cable news viewing from the hours of 6:30 in the morning until only 11 at night. That’s only 16½ hours of cable news. Wish me luck. I’d say “Fingers crossed!” but the remote is still glued to my right hand.