The incredible shrinking sociopath.

He’s losing and he’s losing it all at once.

Lawrence O’Donnell famously once asked “If Trump gets dementia, how would we know?”

I mean, we are talking about the drink bleach, upside down, tomato sauce stained Oompa Loompa who called himself the second coming of Jesus and looked at an eclipse like it was Ivanka in a bra and panties in the sky so the question is indeed a fair one.

But after watching him the past few weeks, particularly at that completely unhinged “press conference” he held the other day, and maybe I’m painting pictures here, but the motherfucker didn’t even bother with a base coat, so it’s not as if that shit show conveyed the Steph Curry of sanity.

He looked diminished. He sounded defeated. He didn’t even sniff enthusiastically. It was as if the daily day drunk at your local strip mall Applebees couldn’t be bothered to pry his swampy, hungover ass out of his Lazy-Boy at 2:00 in the afternoon and decided to mutter his usual maniacal musings at the walls instead of the unamused lunch servers.

He summoned those reporters. He set the time. He had his diaper butler Walt dust off the American flags he’d disturbingly dry humped so many times in the past. He asked for the damn thing, and then he showed up looking like a cracked out circus clown on a walk of shame after an all-night reverse cowgirl sex party with the bearded lady and the world’s largest rat.

Had he been up all night crying into piles of crushed up Addy and KFC because once again the mean cat lady with the big words and America’s dad drew another massively joyful crowd?

He summoned the press and like moths to the melting fiberglass they came.

He said he was there to announce the debates he and Kamala had agreed to, only, they hadn’t agreed at all to any of them, and he didn’t even talk to her about it, and the terms were like, it had to be at his house, in front of his supporters only, who were totally drunk, and she wasn’t allowed to actually attend, but they’d have a cardboard cutout of her behind the podium instead and he’d answer “Because I’m a slut” to every question for her while hangry toddlers angrily hurled fistfuls of sugar-free applesauce at her from the audience.

“I guess we’ll see if she shows up or not.” He said after inviting an ice cream cone to jump into a raging bonfire.

And then predictably, Mr. “New tone”, launched into his usual grievance tour greatest hits ramblings. His crowd sizes were bigger than MLK’s, bigger even than Jesus’, he was the greatest president ever in the history of the world, which he knew because the 15 pounds of narcotics he shoved up his nose that morning told him so, America was falling apart, his McDonlad’s “Fish Delights” were uncharacteristically soggy, waaah waaaah waaah…

He was asked about his Miracle Ear, overcompensating as per the usual tell for when he’s lying (which is basically always) about them calling that part of the ear “the lobe”, when it sure as shit is beginning to look like he wasn’t shot at all.

And then he told a harrowing story of a near-death helicopter crash he’d barely survived, which - given the fact that he’s never once mentioned that story before to anyone’s recollection, instantly sent the press digging.

He said he was on board the chopper with Kamala’s ex-boyfriend Willie Brown, and they ran into trouble. It seemed the aircraft was going to crash, and like the airplane scene in Almost Famous, Willie began giving up the goods he’d otherwise been to afraid to say out loud. He started dissing Kamala.

I mean, as per the dotarding day drunk anyway.

As it turns out, none of that was true at all. He was never even on a helicopter with Willie Brown, it was Jerry Brown (and Gavin Newsom), they never mentioned Kamala and they didn’t even come close to crashing.

[This was the “raking the forests” time for context].

He made the whole fucking thing up. Just made it up. Not giving a fuck if anyone dared to fact check it. Maybe because he doesn’t give a fuck, or maybe because he’s so fucked up in his addlepated “mind”, it actually did go down the way he said it did.

Either way — what the actual fuck?

And can we please talk about the fact that small in the stands man is STILL talking about crowd size, now — in August of 2024?!?

Dude is to crowd sizes what JD Vance is to couches — he can’t get off of them, but he does like to get off ON them.

(Sorry, not sorry).

But it does feel as though the correlation between Kamala’s ascent and Trump’s demise are inextricably linked.

He’s losing, he knows it, and he can’t do a damn thing to stop it. She’s spanking him so hard he might as well call her Stormy.

I’m not saying he’s not a threat anymore — that would be like saying the 15th cup of Koolaid at Jonestown would be a safe refreshment to roll the dice on.

“I’m sure it’s fine, honey. They can’t ALL be poison, can they?”

The guy is still both extremely dangerous and exceedingly unhinged. I wouldn’t take my eyes off of him for a second, unless he began to disrobe, in which case I’d run away crying for my mommy like Josh Hawley did on January 6th.

He’s still lethal. We can’t ever lose sight of that.

But his bite sure as shit is starting to feel a bit more gum and a lot less fang. And ultimately, that is a very good thing. Even if thinking about him gumming anything is very bad.

Even if everything about him is still very, very bad.

As an aside — I’m absolutely positive that “weird” drives him even crazier than he already is, so I won’t be taking my foot off the gas on that one any time soon. So uncharacteristic of me to go for the low hanging fruit, ain’t it?

Speaking of low hanging fruit — JD Vance just makes it so damn easy to mock him, doesn’t he? This is what you get when Eric does the vetting and the only question he asks in the interview is “what is yellow?”

Welp — onward and upward. We still have a democracy to save. It’s looking better and better from my vantage point, but the road ahead is nonetheless an arduous one.

But we are not going back.

Nope. Never.