It was another day ending in Y in Donald Trump's motherfucking America. And there we were again, dragged into yet another gobsmacking gauntlet of gilded grift and grievance theater -- a stress test of our sanity, our restraint, our daytime sobriety and our ability to resist the urge to chuck the goddamn remote control through the goddamn living room window.

I was watching clips from the Bondi hearing -- which dragged its bloated carcass across my screen for hours -- and it was the single most unprofessional, evasive, petulant, mean-girl spectacle I have ever seen in my life.

She was smarmy. Insufferable. Condescending. Combative. And so fucking rude.

Was she raised by a marauding band of exiled Real Housewives, bottle-fed on boxed Pinot Grigio and menthols, left to marinate in a playpen with a bleach cocktail and a stack of National Enquirers? Did she learn her signature brand of venom by mainlining reruns of Jerry Springer and YouTube compilations of cats getting drop-kicked?

. . .