This time tomorrow Trump will be toast because in the debate he will seal his fate by being himself.

It’s going on 8:00 PM here in Portland, Oregon. This time tomorrow MSNBC talkers will be offering the post-debate autopsy result — death by 10,000 cuts.

Tonight I’m watching “Justified,” the battle between the good U.S. Marshall and the evil Kentucky hill country ruthless killer gangster Boyd Crowder. 24 hours from now I’ll be watching replays of debate segments between two other forces of good and evil.

There’s no way Trump can show convincing contrition for being a porcine perv because he doesn’t think he did anything wrong. I doubt he’ll even try. Instead he’ll do what he’s said he’ll do. He’ll try to attack Hillary by saying what she and Bill did was far worse than anything he did. This will backfire big time because Hillary will be ready. 

I’m hope that during the debate Trump says something so reprehensible or insensitive that it gradually dawns on him that he’d dug his own grave. I hope I see flop sweat, like when a chess player lifts his hand off a move and a few seconds later realizes he’s opened himself to be checkmated.

“It was like when you make a move in chess and just as you take your finger off the piece, you see the mistake you've made, and there's this panic because you don't know yet the scale of disaster you've left yourself open to.” 
― Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go

By the end of the debate I’ll already know how badly Trump lost — and he will have lost because he is incapable of being anyone but Trump. He’ll be Trump and Hillary will be Hillary and she’ll play him like the bottom feeder he is, reel him in and fry him up and serve him with hush puppies, cole slaw, and greens.

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