When a radicalized US Army veteran mowed down 15 people in New Orleans, Donald Trump wasted no time pointing his finger, blaming immigrants and a non-existent “open border” for the tragedy:

I met this guy, and we have been hooking up for a while.

During last night’s walk with Sebastian, two young adult males rode by on bicycles, one yelling to the other, “You’re a f*cking man. Suck it up!”

In life, we often face moments that define us — moments of deep struggle, unexpected triumph, and transformation.

It’s morning, New Years Day, 2030. After a night of revelry, Americans are waking up to a dancing hologram, by now familiar, floating over their beds. Donald Trump’s three-dimensional image gyrates enthusiastically if irrhythmically to the dreaded YMCA song, tiny fists boxing the air as everyone grabs the covers. Swinging a flyswatter, throwing a shoe or spraying disinfectant at the specter does nothing; running is equally pointless as Trump’s hologram dances right along into the bathroom.

Early this morning, a body covered with a white sheet lay on the sidewalk next to the Publix parking lot. Apparently, a pedestrian was hit by a car. I don’t know the person’s age, but I assume they didn’t wake up thinking that today was the day they would die.