THE PROBLEM WITH the Imperial Presidency as she is constituted — limited public access, the Praetorian S.S. Guards, the bulletproof gas-guzzling motorcade — is that there doesn’t appear to be any analog to Caesar’s chariot slave. You know: the guy whose charge it was to ride with Caesar in triumphal marches and whisper in the Great One’s ear, “Remember, Caesar, you are but a man.”
Nobody, when the Won floats one of his whoppers, to ejaculate, “**chough**BULLSHIT!**cough**”.
And you wonder if The O can see through the Red Curtain of Hubris (RCOH) to understand that it’s HIS loss.