So, we’ve experienced the Donald Trump meltdown. Pretty spectacular. If you like volcanoes tapping out. You have to admit, not since Howard Dean in 2004 (in Iowa), or cheese on a grilled burger, have we seen such a meltdown.

Not that the Trumpster is anything like melting cheese on a burger. For one thing, who would want to eat orange-ish, frizzy-topped cheese on a burger? Outside of at … well, use your drive-through imagination.

But now, we’ve seen the true Trumpster meltdown, because the first one, apparently, was just a training exercise. Training is good for many things: baseball, basketball, football, melting cheese on a burger. Turns out, though, practicing saying “You’re fired” on TV is not all-that-good training for running the country. Who knew?

Meanwhile (back at that misdescriber of reality), the Trumpster continues to melt and melt and melt, much like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz once she encounters water. (Does the Trumpster ever encounter water? Does he melt there, too?)

The Trumpster’s last melt concerns a grand conspiracy against him. God-zooks.

I don’t know about you, but a grand conspiracy is so much better than your everyday, ordinary (not to be redundant or anything) conspiracy. I mean, you can stumble upon those conspiracies on some little grassy knoll anywhere. It’s like discovering Kleenex. Or clowns.

No, the Trumpster’s latest conspiracy involves Hillary Clinton, international corporations (though none from Russia, curiously), Goofy, the Mickey Mouse dog, and various creatures from the rings of Uranus, all of whom seem to resemble former Miss Universes who have gained some weight. Oh, and anyone who claims to have suffered sexual abuse/assault from him in the past.

That’s some conspiracy. That grand grassy knoll must be some kind of grassy knoll.

Where can we get one?

Of course, the system is rigged, as the Trumpster has trumpeted ever since the Trumpster tapes (and we all know what his words are; we don’t have to get into his language).

And, of course, the system is rigged in favor of rich, white boys such as the Trumpster. He has taken advantage of it all his life. When it suddenly tilts against him, he lashes out as the bully he’s always been.

Who’s surprised? Hillary Clinton certainly isn’t; she’s dealt with right-wing nonsense most of her public life. Not that I’m all that enamoured with her, but when your alternative is cockroaches for lunch, you search for lunch elsewhere.

God-zooks.

In the end, it appears that God doesn’t zook, he, she, or it (or some combination, but who could know?), God rooks.

In which case, God knows how to castle. Good luck, chess fans. Because when God castles, it stays castled.

I think. Therefore, I am a sweet potato.

At least, I’m not the Trumpster.

The Trumpster, as we all know by now, lives in Wonderland and stoutly (quite stoutly) believes he’s Peter Pan.