Thank You For Your Attention To This Madman

He's quite insane, you know.

You can always tell when Donald Trump is terrified.

It’s not subtle. He doesn’t have a poker face; the roadmap of insecurities is plastered across his grotesque physiognomy, from chingina to wig, a Dorian Orange visage in an obscure shade of Formby’s 1970s furniture stains.

When he’s winning, or thinks he is, he’s merely cruel. But when he’s scared? When the walls of his own mortality and incompetence start closing in? He becomes this: a frantic, caps-lock-abusing carnival barker screaming about his “PERFECT” medical charts while threatening to imprison the New York Times for noticing he drags his leg like a drunk pirate and is increasingly and obviously suffering from dementia and a host of other physical collapses.