Trump's Personal Devil

President Donald Trump tells shameless lies. Absurd lies. Transparent lies. Then he scrambles awkwardly to bully his listeners into agreeing with him. He lies when he hardly needs to.

For instance, Trump's chock-full-of-baloney boasts about his margins of victory and crowd sizes are laughable, at best. The endless campaign, with such preening for his fans, has become a familiar part of the new normal. 

Still, having won the presidency and the awesome power that office wields, why does Trump continue to cough up so many untruths that can easily be exposed? Why bother?

In short, I say the Devil makes him do it. Stick with me, dear reader, a less cryptic explanation is coming soon:

In other departures from propriety and reality, Trump routinely tweets deranged declarations and purple protestations in the wee hours. Since those unfiltered tweets sometime undermine what seem to be his best interests, why the hell can't he stop?

Answer: The Devil, once again.

Question: Why did Trump fire Comey?

Answer: You know who made him do it.

OK, now I'll un-bury the lede: Who or what is Trump's personal devil? In one word, it's his "anxiety."

Trump's anxiety bubbles and boils when he feel besieged ... which probably happens a lot, lately. When his paranoia overwhelms him, his habit is to do something to relieve it. The pattern is a compulsion.

Think about it. When he feels that anxiety coursing through his veins Trump can't go to a familiar neighborhood bar, talk about the NBA Finals and toss back a few beers with his pals. Apparently drugs don't do the trick for him, either, so he doesn't fire up a joint, or pop a Xanax. (Who knows if that's really true?) I'm pretty sure Boss Tweet is not the type to go for a soothing bike ride. On top of that, with the current media "witch hunt" underway it's too damn risky to try to smuggle in any more Russian hookers to perform "salacious" acts. 

My theory is that one of Trump's favorite anxiety medicines is tweeting crazy shit. The crazier, the better. Imposing his imperial will on lesser beings is another. Weird bullying handshakes ... and so forth. When Trump's need to dominate is satiated he wins the moment. It's all about the moment.

Surviving the moment. His heart didn't explode out of his chest. Then the president takes a deep breath. He feels his pulse. Thump ... thump ... thump.

Wait, I guess his black heart probably goes, "Trump ... Trump ... Trump."

With that anxiety attack crisis in the rear-view mirror, Trump's squirmy-toad mind begins searching for the next ploy. His paranoia stemming from all the people he's turned into victims -- like, how many of them want to kill him? -- starts to crowd into his thoughts again. How many black people want to kill him? How many Muslims?

Picture a loquacious mini-Trump, with little horns, perched on the president's shoulder -- whispering in his ear, evermore.

Yes, anxiety can be a killer.