Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
The complainers speak in all caps sometimes.
“AMERICA IS FALLING APART,” they often say. “THINGS ARE WORSE NOW THAN EVER BEFORE.”
But just because something was typed in capital letters doesn’t make it true.
Q: Sean!!! Are you going to write anything about how poorly Ingrid Andress sang our national anthem at the Home Run Derby? It’s an attack on our country!!! If you stay silent on this you are a complete wuss!!!!
A:
“There’s a bug on my leg!” said Becca.
“There’s no bug on your leg,” I said confidently.
“Are you SURE?”
“Absotively,” I said.
Wake up. Start coffeemaker. Turn on TV. A panicky news journalist is saying America is doomed and only minutes away from exploding. And if not America, at least my house. Turn off TV.
The news is in. Less than one third of Americans have ever written a physical letter in their lifetime.
Jim was stuck. In the middle of the rural two-lane highway. Right there on the pavement. Not far from the solid yellow line. Tucked tightly in his shell. Scared to death.
Vehicles sped past little Jim, on both sides, shooting by with the deafening roars of F-16s.
Sean Dietrich pithily responds to reader mail in a manner that only he can.
I am sitting at my airline gate. I have been waiting here since the Peloponnesian Wars. I am people-watching because there is nothing else to do while I wait for my plane. The main person I am watching is a guy in the seating area. He is maybe mid-80s. With him are six children. He appears to be the sole adult in their company. There are no other grownups with him.
Americans are arguing right now. And believe me, I get it. There is a lot going on. Everyone has differences of opinion.
But I wondered if we Americans couldn’t put aside our disagreements for a moment, and agree on a few things we love.
It was late. I was leaving South Carolina, where I’d just made a speech in Columbia. I had an all-night drive ahead of me.
We sped through Amish country on our way to meet our friend Kris at a restaurant called “Funck’s.” My wife, Jamie, was convinced the name of this restaurant was an unfortunate typo.
Dear God,
It’s me again. Actually, I don’t know what you want me to call you. For all I know, you might prefer to be called something Hebrew, Latin, or maybe you don’t want to be called anything at all.
Last night, the young man found himself in an old hardware store. There were a bunch of old timers, sitting around drinking coffee. Lots of laughing. The irreverent kind of laughs you hear from old men.
It seems like everyone is talking about AI. It’s on the news. It’s in every newspaper. “AI is taking over the world,” the media headlines declare. “AI replaces 12 million jobs.” “AI wins Miss America Pageant.” AI might be writing this right now. There’s no way to know.
It was an average weeknight in Birmingham when I stood atop the Vulcan statue. Snow on the ground. I was looking at the city below, standing beneath Vulcan’s massive butt cheeks.
We arrived in New York City and tried our best to avoid the chaotic crowds of pedestrians downtown. But this proved to be difficult inasmuch as our cab driver was driving on the sidewalks. We tried to ask him to slow down, but he was too busy on a video call.
I was on the way to the shed. Walking through the yard. I saw something in the grass. It was fluttering in the weeds. I could see its wings.
I bought a flip phone. One without a camera or a touchscreen. Without AI, facial recognition, video chatting, GPS, or the ability to flush my toilet from the other room. It’s a “stupid” phone. A device with the same level of intelligence as a member of Congress.
Angels aren’t real. They can’t be. It just doesn’t make sense. How can a rational human with a working brain believe in invisible celestial creatures who all resemble Michael Landon?
Before we got married, my wife and I had to take a mandatory church marriage class. The Baptist church would not marry anyone without this rigorous class because the church ran the real risk that unschooled young couples were engaging in premarital relations, which could lead to dancing.