He’s going down. The crazy daisies will now be his status quo. He’s not going to put himself in another debate with someone who just ragged him into a pool of make-up and sweat. But can she win the election remains the last pseudo-journalistic place to hide. But can she win. But can she win. She can win. She will win. And the maga maestro can join his mate, Putin, who will eventually have to face the reality that their fates are intertwined because they themselves have intertwined it. I don’t believe in a god. But here in the trenches of America, I am fervently praying that Americans can still be smart. Cats and dogs are embarrassed and humiliated that they were a part of Trump’s playbook. My dog would have eaten his playbook for lunch. And there’s the problem. It’s their problem. The courtiers, the lobbyists, the lawyers, the snakes. Trump’s problem is that he’s going to lean into it. There will be recipes. Into the mixing bowl, crack an egg, throw in some high heels and and some blondes. Finally. Someone. Stood. In. His. Way. It took a black woman to do it. Today, he’s calling for civil war. Grandpa, we have to go home now. I will hold your hand. And we’re walking. And, we’re walking.