I cope by running to the hills with appropriate poetry. Here's some:
The world is too much with us
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers --
Little we see in Nature is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
And if you're tired of it all, the whole damn mess, I'll take you back to my regular programming. You can even lick the frosting from the bowl -- or my fingers. Take your pick.
First there was this:
Then there was this:
And then, this:
And after, this:
Oh, and finally this:
If you're an old doddering fool, there's this: