No matter how satirical you are, it’s never enough to keep up.

Trump didn’t tweet the above. I did.

You knew that, though, right?

Right?

More on that in a moment.

As regular readers of whatever it is I’m doing here know, I occasionally play Is it ___ or is it not? followed by what I hope is some facile snarkery and channeling of the likes of Peggy Noonan, Ben Carson, the shallow end of the Trump base, and most recently (and most often) Donald Trump. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I’m a heckler who gets laughs, sometimes I annoy those at the next table.

And lately people I admire (and some I don’t) are those people at the next table, asking, “Would you shut up already with this? We got the joke.”

They may have a point.

Grab a crayon and purposefully color outside the lines. Add Huge and Trust Me, a few spelling errors, inexplicable capitalization, 5th grade grammar skills and syntax, alternate between short and choppy and run-on sentences, and include a healthy dose of hubris and, voila, you too can be a troll. Problem is, aside from being not much of an art form, it’s a long day and there’s only so much energy you can dedicate to mocking someone so easily mockable before self-satisfaction kicks in. What is there more to say — what comic insights are there — when the president of the United States is already calling the leader of North Korea “Rocket Man” or bragging about the size of his non-existent nuclear button, or doesn’t know Namibia from Nambia, or makes up words (Coveffe) and facts, or takes credit for safe air travel, or wants thanks from everyone in America who has a job, or reflexively displays his immaturity and paranoia and fear on a daily basis, or, or, or …?

There is no longer any meaningful distinction between the set-up and the punchline, between the mimic and the subject. Trump is now the clown and the bottle of seltzer, the big red nose and the shoes, the unicycle and the juggled bowling pins. He’s in and staring into the funhouse mirror. How often can you point that out before turning into a onenote noodge? And what’s the endgame of all this fakery?

Hey, did Trump really write that? No, he didn’t. That’s Friedman.

Joke’s over.

Remember this from Woody Allen’s Manhattan?

Isaac Davis: Has anybody read that Nazis are gonna march in New Jersey? Y’know, I read this in the newspaper. We should go down there, get some guys together, y’know, get some bricks and baseball bats and really explain things to them.

Party Guest: There is this devastating satirical piece on that on the Op Ed page of the Times, it is devastating.

Isaac Davis: Well, a satirical piece in the Times is one thing, but bricks and baseball bats really gets right to the point.

Heard once from a rabbi that sarcasm is a terrible way to raise raise children. It also may be a terrible way to combat Trump.

(Not that balls and bats would be much better. They’ve got guns, after all.)

But back to that tweet.

There’s no reason you should believe me on this — none — but I wrote it two nights ago and specifically didn’t post it because I thought it too detectable, too fatuous. Surely readers would know Donald Trump, even Donald Trump — this vainglorious self-proclaimed cocksman — wouldn’t be that crass, that misogynistic.

Even he wouldn’t display such douchebaggery.

Wait for it.

From Michael Wolff’s new book ‘Fire and Fury.’

“Trump liked to say that one of the things that made life worth living was getting your friends’ wives into bed. In pursuing a friend’s wife, he would try to persuade the wife that her husband was perhaps not what she thought. Then he’d have his secretary ask the friend into his office; once the friend arrived, Trump would engage in what was, for him, more or less constant sexual banter. ‘Do you still like having sex with your wife? How often? You must have had a better f — — than your wife? Tell me about it. I have girls coming in from Los Angeles at three o’clock. We can go upstairs and have a great time. I promise …’ All the while, Trump would have his friend’s wife on the speakerphone, listening in,” Wolff wrote.

Satire has left the building.