Have you read Mary Trump's book? There's a great scene in it in which Mary, age six or seven, sees Donald, all of twenty five years, walk into the kitchen of Fred Trump and family, open the refrigerator, grab a stick of butter and take three or four bites off of it.

It doesn't mean anything. It says nothing about the man's political proclivities. But it paints a hell of a picture.

The man is a careless, disinterested idiot. He spent his presidency golfing. When he was handed graphics that didn't match his narrative, he drew on them in Sharpie.

I used to work in the Fisherman's Terminal. I'd go out and walk during my lunch break, have my sandwich on the pier. A nice Ethiopian guy walked up to me once and asked me if I knew the way to the merchant marine. I said I didn't. He asked me if I was in the merchant marine. I said I wasn't. Then he asked me if I liked to party, and held out a hockey puck of black tar heroin.

I've never done heroin. I'll never do heroin. But every now and then I wish I had bought a fucking hockey puck of heroin because then I'd have a hockey puck of heroin.

I had a jar of mercury for a while. Why? Because a friend said "I figured you'd want this" and he was right. I'd be lying if I didn't at least partly plan to hang onto the plutonium.

If I had a bunch of nuclear secrets? I would go "I wonder if I could keep these just... you know, to have them. Because they're fucking cool." But I'm not a sociopath, and I know I would never ever ever ever ever get away with it, and I know that it's a completely pointless risk, and that's why I don't have a spare puck of heroin in the drawer.

I don't eat butter by the stick, let alone someone else's.

I doubt Trump acquired a bunch of documents on Jan 7th like an angry ex decamping her boyfriend's apartment. I think he stashed cool shit away for four years and left with all "his" stuff.