All these political earthquakes got our collective psyche’s Richter scale going off the charts. It’s one bungle after another in the White House jungle. Helter-skelter in the president’s fallout shelter. Seems America’s piano is tuned to upheaval. Too hard to follow when the song consistently shifts from Russian to Korean to gibberish. Those poor piano keys can barely hold on to hands trying to compose a saner, steadier melody. Better happen fast, or we may wind up singing the forever blues on the stink pile of extinction. Stuck with Trump’s orange hair as the new frozen sun in a nuclear winter blunderland.