U.S.A.! U.S.A.! vol. 280

Donald Trump still believes that he can grab 'em by the you-know-what, and until now has avoided coming to grips with the reality that he is a morbidly obese 74-year-old man with a spray-on tan and an ingeniously structured hairdo that could be dubbed the Sat-on Beehive. At this point, his erotic allure is limited to sad-sack middle-aged men with expensive divorces, expensive pickups, lowered expectations and too many guns. He may hold the title of commander in chief, for now — and let's not underestimate the danger in that — but he's more like the incel in chief.

As Donald Trump has secretly known all along — stupid, injured manchild that he is — none of the people in the privileged classes of New York or Washington or California who pretended to love and admire him truly understood his greatness, and now that the waves are crashing over the bow they're scurrying off the deck. He'll be left at the end with the losers and incels and rubes in the red hats — stricken, lonely people who looked to him as a savior and for whom he feels only contempt. People he probably hates more than he hates Muslims or Mexicans or Black people, and possibly even more than he hates himself.

Donald Trump is doomed, and he knows it: But will he go out with a whimper or a bang?

Trump's final months will be ugly — and the damage he's done will last for years. But there's an upside, sort of