The early projection: Donald Trump is the end of satire.
Not that as president he would ban it, although in his fantasies he shuts down “Saturday Night Live.” It's that based on his early proclivities, Trump is beyond lampooning.
Whatever scene a humorist might conjure, he lives it. He is his own work of fiction.
Presidential? Oh my; with smart phone in hand, he is a running joke. Consider the laughable data he mined from a sophomoric web site to assert that Hillary Clinton’s 2.3 million-vote plurality comes from illegal votes.
Granted, the man may turn out to be FDR. Based on his material, however, as of now Trump is Kanye West without rhythm.
So is this what we face: Late at night, when Trump should be doing something constructive on behalf of the republic, he paces his quarters, armpits ablaze, sleeveless like Brando on stage, rat-tat-tatting out dubious mind-blorts into the wee Twitter hours.