Clichés for the age of the coronavirus

I'm getting sick, sore and tired -- aren't you -- of hearing Governor Cuomo preach to us about the horrors of the corona virus. (There are others of course, like the Prime Minister of Canuckistan, but Mr Cuomo annoys me most.) He spouts one cliché after another about how we're all in this "crisis" together, and about how he must have more money and power, all the while giving out the veriest bullshit about the imminent apocalypse.

I've got to the point of tuning out. I have developed self-control sufficient to prevent me from turning on the idiot's lantern at all. [With no hockey being played, why would you need to? Poor Len, filling in for Ed. who is self-isolating.] In case you, dear reader, can't resist tuning in to see if there's any other news [There isn't. Poor Len], let me list for you the clichés you will certainly hear, so you can "skim-listen", as it were. What follows is taken, with a few minor adaptations, from

The Myles na gCopaleen Catchism of Clichés

by Flann O'Brien

What, as to the quality of solidity, imperviousness, and firmness, are facts?
Hard.
And as to temperature?
Cold.
To what do hard facts belong?
The situation.
And to what does a cold fact belong?
The matter.
What should the cold, hard facts not be allowed to get in the way of?
A good story.
What, then, must we do to the hard facts of the situation?
Face up to them.
And what does a cold fact frequently still do?
Remain.
And what is notoriously useless as a means of altering the hard facts of the situation?
All the talk in the world.
If a thing is fraught, with what is it fraught?
The gravest consequences.
What downward cooking operation does it engage in when coming to the same thing?
It boils down.
When?
In the end.
What is that?
About the size of it.