In 2016, the pollster prophets, after examining the innards of a statistically significant sample of free-range chickens sacrificed under a full moon, asserted that Hillary Clinton had, by one prediction, a 91 percent chance of winning the U.S. presidency. Then she lost.

Like a toddler denied a promised ice cream cone, her supporters threw a wailing, tearful tantrum. Hillary’s crookedness was insulting and in your face, but we were supposed to ignore it and vote for America’s first super-villain president.

Shortly after her loss, Clinton and her campaign staff decided to advance the Russian collusion smear to explain her failure. She was a “victim,” not a “loser,” and victimhood gets you points in today’s world.

We now know the Clinton campaign was involved in soliciting the dirty dossier but had found no takers in the media before the election to publicize what was an obvious dirty trick. How Hillary must have fumed at their timidity. If only they had lived up to her expectations but then, so few have. The smear failed to carry her into the White House, but in the aftermath of defeat she saw it as a means to destroy Trump’s presidency. She sent forth her loyal flying monkeys and—with the help of corrupt supporters in the Justice Department, the FBI, and the media—the Never-Ending Russian Collusion Investigation and Hate War was declared.

The celebrities of Hollywood and New York eagerly enlisted and have been popping off with persistent regularity ever since. One of the first out of the hate gate was actress Lena Dunham. She is the product of a prosperous upbringing by artsy, New York City parents. Her mother, Laurie Simmons, is a photographer whose work involves images of doll houses and dolls posed in what are said to be meaningful postures. She admits to having difficulty photographing real people but compensates for it by the curious device of painting open eyes on her models’ closed eyelids. Her father, Carroll Dunham, is a painter. Crude female nudes are one of his favorite subjects. Have you ever seen one of those humorous cutout garden decorations of a plump woman facing away and bent over in her garden? That’s a pose Pa Dunham favors for his nudes. They are very vulgar and very, very ugly and therefore applauded by today’s art connoisseurs. How could any father explain such “art” to his daughter?

Or, perhaps, such art explains his daughter.

Described by her admirers as “woke,” meaning that she is awake to the fascist patriarchy, etc., Dunham loves to hate Trump. It’s part of her schtick. She’s a professional woke person striving to be the wokiest, woked-up woker in the whole woke world. It’s how she pays her rent and she may well be sincere in the same way some ignorant folks sincerely believe the world is flat.

Although she declared in an interview, that women shouldn’t mock Trump’s appearance because it doesn’t help them to “reclaim” their power, she also added, archly, that he shouldn’t be referred to as “That orange piece of sh*t.”

Dunham’s potty talk now seems quaint. Trump hate has grown far more vicious and pervasive. Late night television led the way, gleefully leaping into a sea of hatred like that happy killer whale at the end of “Free Willy” diving into the open sea. Actor after actor, ranging from dewy-eyed ingénues to graying has-beens, compete to out virtue-signal their compatriots by spewing nastier and nastier vitriol.

Robert De Niro brought a theater full of actors on live television to their feet cheering with an expletive directed at Trump. Peter Fonda obscenely called for women in the Trump Administration to be displayed naked in cages or in pillories for passersby to whip. He suggested a new four-letter, misogynistic word for women he doesn’t like that he boasts is worse than Samantha Bee’s feckless word. Fonda also called for Baron, Trump’s 12-year-old son, to be kidnapped and locked up with pedophiles. Even the Mafia shunned targeting the families of its enemies. And most recently, Mickey Rourke, deployed a homosexual slur against the president in an attempt to criticize his policies on the border.

Hatred of Trump has polluted the media, with over 90 percent of his coverage hostile. It has infected the federal government with Trump haters abusing their offices to attack him. Members of Trump’s staff are harassed in public, their homes are surrounded by protestors chanting insults, and their families terrorized. Wikileaks published the names and personal information of ICE employees, inviting harassment. Rep. Maxine Waters (D-Calif.) infamously called for more of this, then claimed she was the victim of hate. Public appearances by Trump supporters bring bomb threats. Occupy Wall Street tweeted instructions on how to cut out the beating heart of an ICE agent.

You don’t have to be a government employee to be attacked. A Trump hat can get you thrown out of a bar or beaten in the street. And age doesn’t seem to be a factor. A teenager recently was assaulted by a grown man for wearing one. One thing all deplorables should realize is that the haters don’t just hate Trump. They hate you, too. And they enjoy hating you because it makes them feel they are morally superior. Lynch mobs are fueled by self-righteousness.

How should deplorables react? Responding with similar obscenity is ineffective. The haters just use it to justify more hate. I think good humor is better way to proceed. It shows strength.

I’m reminded of the story behind “Yankee Doodle.” During the American Revolution, British army officers concocted the tune to ridicule their American enemy. In a posh pose similar to what today’s celebrities assume, they derided the Yankee’s humble appearance. At the time, “macaroni” referred to the fashionable way to dress in England and Yankee Doodle was mocked for putting a feather in his cap and calling this poor embellishment macaroni. Well, Yankee Doodle may not have been au courant fashion-wise, but the Americans liked the tune and played it in defiance as they marched. Yankee Doodle won out in the end, and at the British surrender at Yorktown, according to one account, the Brits played a different tune, “The World Turned Upside Down.”

The latest British affront to America was the 20-foot-tall balloon that portrayed President Trump as a baby in a diaper. Anti-Trumpers in Britain pooled their cash to construct the blimp and the mayor of London agreed to let it be flown over the city near Parliament during Trump’s visit. It was supposed to mock Trump’s infantile “racism” for enforcing America’s immigration laws. Oh, the laughter it evoked among sophisticated Brits!

Trump responded by not visiting London because he felt, correctly, that the city wouldn’t welcome him. He was right about that. It would have just been an occasion for abusing him in person. But I think he should also do something else. As he stands at the door of Air Force One, waving goodbye to Britain, he should hold up a T-shirt bearing the image of the Trump Baby Blimp. With a smile, he should say, “I’m bringing home a souvenir. I like it. He’s cute. My Scottish mom always said I was a beautiful baby.”

Let the nasty Brits call that “macaroni.”