Remember when Donald Trump was just a rich, rude white man with a reality show? Remember when our biggest fear was that 80 terrible people were running for president at the same time?

Okay, okay, what about this one: Remember when Donald Trump was a satirical political figure in and of himself, until he became a legitimate political figure who radically altered the dynamics of the Republican party and American campaign politics, and almost single-handedly smote the gentle giant of a bygone era that was Jeb Bush? This sounds like the start of what could be a really good joke, if only I already knew the punchline.

I imagine, were The Don here with us today, he would definitely endorse everyone calling him The Don, as opposed to the usual nicknames flung in his direction such as "orange-colored white devil" or "man with a dead animal on his head," which are either both things I've heard him called or catchall phrases that came to me in a fever dream. He would laugh good-naturedly at these friendly jibes and make a mental note on how best to get my mother deported.

The Don would then explain to us that though he may now, unfortunately, qualify as a political figure, he is no politician. He's just loaded and loud; he's so rich and brash, in fact, that he can fund himself throughout the race while denouncing our broken Super PAC system and the fact that rich guys like him can essentially buy off whoever they want. That's a pretty ballsy thing to say, The Don.

It's this kind of devil-may-care attitude that makes our man Donald so adept at garnering support from bigots, who used to care at least a little that just maybe they might be coming off as bigoted and need to tone themselves down. No longer.

In an America that is once again Great, everyone can be one of "The Bigs" (that's a trendy new name for a bigot, write it down on your legal pads). Even if outward appearances suggest that it would be counterintuitive to be racist, it is alright to be xenophobic. It really brings a country together, you know? Donald Trump is actually the great equalizer, the great white hope--unafraid and unflinching and surprisingly un-self-immolating.

One might say The Don has always been here, one way or another, waiting for the ideal moment to strike.

The Don, like a falcon who dashes the water from your hands when you thirst for it most, and in a blind, parched rage you smite the falcon in kind, and, finally, raise the water to your cracked lips--only to notice a venomous snake curled in the shallows... and the water tumbles from your palms... your faithful falcon killed, all for trying to save you from yourself. The Don nods as I unfold my cautionary tale, his tiny, puffy eyes squinting into the camera, his lips semi-pursed, perhaps turned up appreciatively at the edges. You can picture it, I'm sure.

I reveal he is the snake. The crowd boos. The Don, infinitely wise and kind, quiets their jeering. "I would rather be a snake anyway," he says, "than dead. Ask Jeb."

He drops the mic. We weep.