Trump is a disgusting addition to the GOP circular firing squad, but Kevin Williamson at National Review, one of my favorites, said it far better than I in Witless Ape Rides Escalator

 We’ve been to this corner of Crazytown before. If we’re going to have a billionaire dope running for the presidency, I prefer Ross Perot and his cracked tales of Vietnamese hit squads dispatched to take him out while Lee Atwater plotted to crash his daughter’s wedding with phonied-up lesbian sex pictures.

I have a theory about Trump and his delusions, based, I’ll admit, on pure superstition. There’s an ancient belief, one that persists into our own time, that our names exert occult influence on our lives. And Trump’s name, while potentially comical — “Don-John” — doesn’t offer much in the way of scrying. But his father’s middle name was — true fact — Christ. Fred Christ. Obama’s arrival was announced by a man called Emanuel, but The Donald was brought into this world by Christ himself — Fred Christ. How could a man like that not have a messiah complex?

Of course, when Trump sings “How Great Thou Art,” he sings it in a mirror.

The problem with messiah complexes is that there’s no way to know whether you are going to rise on the third day unless somebody crucifies you. Trump has announced, and I say we get started on that.