When are people—“leaders,” pundits, and anyone with an IQ nudging past room temperature—going to stop pretending Donald Trump is some kind of political riddle worth decoding?

He’s not an enigma. He’s not a chess master. He’s not even playing checkers.

Every minute spent “analyzing” his ramblings—outside of Sean, the Fox chorus, and the red-hat cult members—is a minute wasted pretending there’s depth where there is only noise.

Trump’s brain is now an all-you-can-eat buffet for dementia cells, and they’re swarming it like biblical locusts with a loyalty card.

So when, exactly, does the Republican Congress—exhausted from doing nothing—decide to do the one job the Constitution actually gives them? Draft articles of impeachment. Shut down the circus. Take the keys away from the guy juggling torches inside the White House.

Here’s the part everyone keeps whispering instead of shouting: Trump and Hegseth have access to nuclear weapons. If Trump gets offended, bored, or wakes up cranky at 3 a.m., there is no guarantee an adult steps in. That’s not hyperbole—that’s the design flaw.

The D.C. red-hat caucus doesn’t need more think pieces. It needs pink slips—delivered the old-fashioned way, at the ballot box—so the country can get back to the boring, radical idea of democracy, rule of law, and leaders who don’t require a daily psychological evaluation.

Normal shouldn’t be this hard.