Dear Wags,

Last night, our phones rattled with Donald J. Trump alerts from every outlet under the sun. We half-expected a Trump is Guilty bulletin from Pet Fancy. Ubiquity breeds indifference as much as contempt, and the 45th president of the United States has become the garish wallpaper of our age. There’s something touching about the latest headline surge. It was powered by a yearning for a finale that never seems to come.

What unites divergent clickbait is its lack of clairvoyance. Sorry, there is no telling what this means yet. The future, most inconveniently, has not happened. When it does, pundits will say they called it long ago. Meanwhile, back to the zombie movie.

Ambiguity is not engaging. Nor is it the business model for social media giants. Consequently, we gorge on Trump’s downfall and resurgence by turns, never quite getting satisfaction. It’s easy to blame algorithms, but they only serve what monkey brains crave. As tech becomes even better at baiting us, we keep letting ourselves off the hook. Audiences, however debased or manipulated, fuel a fractured news agenda.

This environment suits Trump, a walking, blurting provocation. It appears that when They go low, crowds stop to gawk, and when We go high, they forget We exist entirely. Trump’s innovation in political discourse is the disorienting rate at which he sprays outrages. This cadence syncs neatly with the contemporary attention span. In him, we have a one-man Roman Colosseum, pandering to fans and appalling enemies. Playing the heel may catch up with him someday. For now, he exudes confounding vigor.

It’s unfortunate that so much of the case against Trump rests on awfulness (it’s bizarre that it’s also somehow a case for him). But that is the way it is. For the last time: What you see is what you get. If he is somehow returned to the White House, the danger is not that we will wake up in Budapest tomorrow. It’s that this country and the West will be plunged deeper, perhaps irretrievably, into chaos. That’s not pearl-clutching. It’s the pitch.

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At other clinch points, the electorate has stopped flirting with disaster. We did not elect a President Charles Lindbergh. Being found guilty on 34 felony counts is bad for Trump, no matter how madly the spinners spin. The question is not whether large numbers of diehards will abandon him, but whether another disgrace puts him beyond the pale for a handful of voters in a few states.

Unfitness is not disqualifying given the state of our politics. Do we want to be more or less quietly governed, or fatally distracted? That seems to be the choice. When we say we’re sick of this—authoritarian cosplay, pointless drama, sleaze—do we really mean it, deep in our twisted hearts? Why can’t we quit him?

Let us be honest about this. This show doesn’t end with a snappy headline or even a guilty verdict. The curtain comes down when the audience, finally and decisively, turns away from the diabolical clown we all made a star.

Yours Ever,

M.V. Fenwick

Medieval Times

Ren Faire (HBO). First off: Why are they called Renaissance Fairs? These weird events are never about da Vinci or Copernicus, but jousting and big legs of mutton. Shouldn't they be called Dark Ages Fests? Anyhow, things are pretty dark at the Texas Renaissance Festival, which happens to be the world’s biggest celebration of ye olde thingies. The hootenanny is run by “King” George Coulam, 86, who is ready to give up his throne. A very eccentric array of pretenders wants to succeed him. Lance Oppenheim’s madcap doc turns this into a loopy Game of Thrones. — Augie Farks