The truth about Trump and the cheap nature of his political appeal is that it is onanistic. He owns the libs hard onscreen and his fans get off. Two minutes later their euphoria has subsided and they are back to railing against entitled snowflake millennials who live with their parents while plotting with Antifa to sell American jobs to ISIS jihadists in exchange for organic avocado toast squares.

As with pornography, the experience for Trump fanboys can be addictive. It also has a kind of spiraling effect. Literature suggests that the man who starts off Googling “ample bosom” eventually moves on to foot fetishism and then to Japanese schoolgirls engaged in illicit congress with elderly men dressed as various minor characters from Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. It’s the same thing with those who enjoy Trump’s endless televisual antics. It begins innocently, laughing along with him as he mocks John McCain, a natural enough pastime but one that, like any good thing, becomes a bad one if indulged to excess. Two years later it has metamorphosed into getting your jollies from four-week marathon sessions of the president mocking Haitian refugees and composing encomiums to resigned domestic abusers.