I’m guessing that you are sitting there reading this column on a civilized Sunday morning, with a good cup of coffee and perhaps a sweet roll from Calumet Bakery or some other fine pastry shop. May I also suggest enlightened and cultured music of the baroque coming from the smart speaker, perhaps the “Four Seasons” by Vivaldi?

So, I figure that the last thing on your mind would be you spitting out a mouthful of bloody chiclets on the sidewalk, with your wife screaming for the police. And your friends on all fours, nauseous on the pavement. And other friends stumbling about, groaning through bloody lips.

But that’s what happens in a street fight.

And that’s where you are, in a street fight, even if you don’t quite fully comprehend it yet.

The once-and-future president Donald J. Trump is in a vicious street fight with the Washington establishment that has long wanted him jailed or dead. And this means all of us are in that street fight too, whether you like it or not.