Shrillness overload

I don’t even know who Jesse Williams is.

He probably said something worthwhile. It may have been a glorious address that rivaled the Sermon on the Mount, for all I know.

For the record, it’s not Jesse Williams’ fault that I don’t know what Jesse Williams said. I have absolutely nothing against Jesse Williams, I believe.

Because social media has been a relentless procession of anger hurricanes for the last few years, I can’t take another speech, even if it’s worthwhile or beneficial.

I’m tapped out of rage, indignation, self-righteousness.

Consider that Williams — who has been a trending topic for two or three days regarding something at the BET Awards — inspired a furious Grade 5 downpour of political tweets and posts after social media became Hurricane Screw Brexit, which was preceded by Tropical Storm Congressional Sit-In. And this was all within the last seven days.

Not to mention the fact that I live in Orlando and millions of people who have never set foot in Florida condemned me as the cause for being a conservative Christian, as opposed to the guy screaming “Allahu Akbar” and with more firepower than a warship.

For the last year, I can’t turn on any app without seeing memes about Donald Trump.

How am I supposed to have deeply held convictions about all of these topics? Heck, how does anybody have deeply held convictions about all of these topics?

It’s too much.

I miss the days when pretty girls used to take happy photos and post them on social media. I think they still do on Instagram. Please Lord, I hope they still do on Instagram. Even if I don’t have a chance with those girls, it’s much more uplifting to admire beauty than it is to shovel this much anger manure.

Just now, I looked up who Jesse Williams is. OK. He’s an actor on “Grey’s Anatomy.”

Perhaps one day I’ll read what he said. Hell, there’s a fair chance I agree with his opinions right now without having read them in the first place.

But I’m here to tell you, I’d be more willing to hear what he had to say when he said it if people picked their spots instead of flooding the “cause of the day” on my feeds.

Who are we to tell the Brits anything?

The British, arguably our best friend in the entire world, pretty much haven’t told us what to do since 1812. Man, that’s some loyalty there. Who wouldn’t like a friend that doesn’t pass judgment on us, even when we do something so stupid as to elect Richard Nixon?

The Brits are friends that share their immense talents for the world to enjoy. They gave us The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Elton John and even the Spice Girls. Hey, they were cute.

They gave us top-flight action heroes with James Bond. They made us laugh with Monty Python and Benny Hill. They challenged our wits with Sherlock Holmes.

When we stunk at soccer, they let us have the best player in the world, David Beckham.

So who are we to tell them what to do with their politics?

Last night, I checked the web before drifting off to sleep and found out that our best friends were deciding if they should stay in the European Union. Ultimately, it was about economics in Europe. Self-governance, perhaps. 

It took me a while to go to sleep. Not because I was troubled over world affairs. It’s because I knew all these ultra-political hard-core types would hyperventilate all over social media tomorrow about what bumholes the Brits are for whatever choice they made. And that’s funny to me. I laughed my ass off until I had insomnia.

Because it’s not our call to make. It’s theirs.

They weren’t deciding on war, nor were they deciding an intense civil rights issue. They were deciding on their future.

Needless to say, the hyperliberal friends from the west coast had already flooded my Facebook feed by the time I woke up at 6 a.m. And I live in Florida, which means they stayed up all night to gripe at 3 a.m. their time. They might be mad because President Obama insisted the English stay in the EU and the Brits went against his wishes. Who knows?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure if the Brits decided to Brstay instead of Brexit, my hyperconservative friends would have done likewise.

Maybe I’m the only one who understands this: We don’t have the moral authority to tell our friends what to do. Enemies? OK, we’ll go to the UN and complain. But friends? Not so much.

It’s hilarious that many of us have become so engulfed by our politics that we have become the uptight, tut-tutting, priggish stereotype the Brits were always accused of being.

Try asking your barista if there’s some decaf available, people. You’re too high strung.