My mind is going. I can feel it.

Except he can’t, because the malignant narcissism leads to, among other things, skipping the whole consciousness of feeling oneself slipping stage:

Now what could possibly have triggered something as apparently random as this? Oh, right:

The discovery that the players of today are far inferior to those of one’s youth, or in Trump’s case, middle age, is not a recent one:

Baseball today is not what it should be. The players do not try to learn all the finer points of the game as in the days of old, but simply try to get by. They content themselves if they get a couple of hits every day or play an errorless game.

When I was playing ball, there was not a move made on the field that did not cause every one of the opposing team to mention something about it. All were trying to figure out why it had been done and to see what the result would be. That same move could never be pulled again without every one on our bench knowing just what was going to happen.

I feel sure that the same conditions do not prevail today. The boys go out to the plate, take a slam at the ball, pray that they’ll get a hit, and let it go at that. They are not fighting as in the days of old. Who ever heard of a gang of ballplayers after losing going into the clubhouse singing at the top of their voices? That’s what happens every day after the games of the present time.

In my days, the players went into the clubhouse after a losing game with murder in their hearts. They would have thrown out any guy on his neck if they had even suspected him of intentions of singing. In my days the man who was responsible for having lost the game was told in man’s way by a lot of men what a rotten ballplayer he really was. It makes me weep to think of the men of the old days who played the game and the boys of today.

It’s positively a shame, and they are getting big money for it, too.

Bill Joyce, quoted in the 1916 Spalding Base Ball Guide

Plato probably said something similar about the Olympiads of his decrepitude.

Returning to our regularly scheduled programming, besides the scientifically confirmable fact that you do not know anyone as stupid as Donald Trump, you just don’t, you also don’t know anyone as intensely miserable as Donald Trump, although he pretty much spends every waking moment trying to alter this situation, by making everyone else as unhappy as only a malignant narcissist can be. That Obama is loved and he never will be — the “love” Trump receives from his supporters is really just reflected hatred, and about as authentic as a prostitute’s smile — is something that positively consumes him with endless rage and frustration.

I take a very un-Christian comfort from the latter fact, as I do from imagining an ahistorical Dante placing Trump at the lowest point of the Ninth Circle, where traitors are frozen in ice, and Satan chews at their feet for eternity, which Trump would spend telling Judas Iscariot about how beloved Trump was back in his day, much much more than Obama, no matter what the fake news and the fake polls said.