Let’s look at Twitter, shall we? Witness the pointless arguments between strangers, broadcast for the world to see! The humorless lurkers, offering factual corrections to fairly obvious jokes! The crazed pile-ons and spurts of public shaming! The strange common urge to comment and form a sudden opinion on every topic and person on earth! Those blessed moments in which every Twitter user suddenly morphs into an expert astrophysicist, master chef, or grizzled paleontologist, based entirely on the trending news of the day! The 6,507,509 outraged opinions (thus far) on the dining habits of Vice President Mike Pence!

Because Twitter is generally awful, and compelling and amusing at the same time, and because, like many media types, I am mildly addicted to it, I have vowed not to check it after 5 p.m. each day. However, because man is a fallen creature, I often fail at this task. So on Thursday, while innocently cooking dinner, I found myself answering the devilish voice on my left shoulder—imagine the voice of Pierce Brosnan, but evil—and checking Twitter.

BAM! From a world of quiet wine-sipping, magazine-flipping, and tranquil sauce-stirring, I was immediately transported into the grotty basement from “Fight Club.” The big, hot story was Mike Flynn, formerly of the Trump administration, shopping around for an immunity deal. Media Twitter was, as it tends to be, wound tighter than a tick, bouncing with rumors and frantic news swapping and a general sense of OMGOODNESS GUYS THIS IS IT OMGOODNESS ITS THE MOMENT WHEN TRUMP WILL GO DOWN.