By Bob the Dog

If America were a reality TV show—and let’s face it, it kind of is—Donald Trump would be the villain who got voted off in season one but kept sneaking back onto the set. He’s the cockroach in the salad of democracy, the gum on the shoe of the justice system, the moldy cheese in the fondue pot of our national conscience. And yet, here we are, seven years into this flaming clown car of absurdity, with the Orange Menace once again barreling toward the White House like a golf cart with a bad attitude.

Let’s drop the polite euphemisms: Donald Trump is the most dangerous criminal in the country. Not just because he tried to overthrow the government like a drunken Civil War reenactor, or because he hoards top secret documents like a dragon with dementia. No, it’s because his entire existence is a greatest hits album of corruption, grift, and pathological narcissism.

Tax fraud? Check. Obstruction of justice? Check. Sexual assault? Allegedly, but let’s be honest—he’s been accused by more women than there are flavors at Baskin-Robbins. Bribery, racketeering, campaign finance violations, inciting an insurrection, tampering with elections, stealing classified documents, threatening witnesses—he’s not a politician, he’s a walking RICO case.

And yet he struts around like a tangerine demigod, soaked in spray tan and delusion, screaming “Witch Hunt!” every time someone tries to hold him accountable. His followers chant “Lock her up” with the same irony you’d find in a meat cleaver demanding peace. The man has turned the Justice Department into his personal chew toy and half the country into a cult that worships a guy who can’t spell “coffee.”

But this isn’t just about Trump’s crimes. It’s about the damage he’s done to our collective psyche. He’s normalized cruelty, made ignorance fashionable, and taught millions of Americans that facts are optional. He’s a demagogue with the moral compass of a swamp eel and the attention span of a goldfish on meth.

In any functioning democracy, a man like Trump would be behind bars or at the very least banned from office and ordered to live out his remaining days in a Mar-a-Lago replica padded cell. But in our current timeline—written by Kafka and directed by Quentin Tarantino—he’s the Republican front-runner. Again.

So here’s the deal: if we let him slither back into power, it won’t be democracy we’re watching die. It’ll be our own reflection—shivering, confused, and complicit—staring back at us from the wreckage of a nation that knew better but couldn’t be bothered to act.