He did it again. He did it again because of fucking course he did it again.

Another screed — a full-throated, unhinged, lunatic fucking rant — as racist as it gets, delivered with the smug abandon of a man who has long since stopped pretending the dog whistle is anything but a foghorn.

This is the choreography of cruelty he knows best — the reflexive, rancid, rot-slick routine where he struts onto a stage that looks like the abandoned parking lot of a DMV on a Sunday, gathers the die-hard drifters and derelict devotees who orbit his ego like bewildered moths, and unleashes the kind of bile that once would have detonated a presidency but now barely earns a shrug from the people paid to pretend this is normal.

The other day, with the gusto of a cooked-shrimp demagogue desperate to be adored, he resurrected the slur he once denied — calling African nations “shitholes” like he was retrieving a cherished heirloom — then sighed into the microphone about wanting immigrants from Norway and Sweden, as though whiteness were a visa and humanity were ranked on a color-coded spreadsheet. It was brazen, bigoted, breathtakingly vile — and yet the silence that followed was somehow worse.

. . .