Dinner was served. Trump got a different, more colorful salad dressing than theirs. His chicken had extra sauce on the side. With his pie came a double helping of vanilla. With theirs, a single. By the magazine’s account, there was no explanation. None was needed. He’s the president and you’re not.

One scoop of imperiousness. Another of insecurity. Top generously with impulsiveness. That’s Trump’s sweet spot, the real driver of his decisions. Comey’s dismissal was the definitive confirmation. It satisfied the president’s emotional appetite, at least at that moment. It undermined all else.

And it put the lie to the stubborn hope that there’s a core of shrewdness beneath his antics and a method to his madness. Mostly, there’s a raging, pouting child.

For all of the negative news coverage that he receives, there has also been a strand of analysis that insisted on, or at least sought, a silver lining to the golden-haired huckster. It reflected all the rationalizations that I heard from Americans who had voted for Trump or were willing themselves to see some upside to his election:

The tweets weren’t merely splenetic. They were strategic, providing distractions when he needed them most. He was amoral, sure, but that was part and parcel of his craftiness, which could do the country some good. He was a liar, yes, but the best deals and the bent truth often went hand in hand — and he was a deal maker above all. He flouted norms, but that might be precisely the purgative our politics needed.

Commentators strained to spot and savor any flicker of something more dignified. Remember the accolades for his address to a joint session of Congress? All he’d done was the commander in chief equivalent of chewing with his mouth closed.