Trump, however, defied the screaming all-caps warning from his national security team — “DO NOT CONGRATULATE,” they wrote in his briefing papers — personally phoning Putin this week anyway, while also refusing to mention a goddamn thing about any of the above, including the 13 sanctioned troll farmers or the near-assassination of Sergei Skripal on UK soil.

Apparently Donald Trump thinks he's finally potty-trained enough to earn himself a pair of big boy pants. Reports from inside the White House this week suggest that Trump feels as though he's learned enough about being president to call his own shots without the aid of his advisers. Consequently, we can expect the madness to escalate, and the pounds-per-square-inch of pressure continue to rise. 

Frankly, I so badly wish we were out of existential danger so I could really savor this. I wish I could sit back and enjoy the spectacle -- and now that I'm living in the DC metroplex again I have front-row seats for Trump's slow descent into historical ignominy....

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