Can Anyone Trump Trump?

Here we are again.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. And you know what that means.

It’s Super Tuesday.

Wait. Didn’t we just do that? Maybe it’s Saturday and Michigan and Bernie and the Bern.

Nope. Been there and done that.

And it’s not South Carolina, or Iowa or New Hampshire, either.

Tomorrow, in German rally fashion, is Der Tag.

This is another epochal day, the day of the Last Chance Saloon. This is the day that is the last chance to stop Donald Trump, or there will be…

What?

In the age of Donald Trump, the important question to ask is not what can possibly happen tomorrow, but what hasn’t already happened.

Tomorrow is the apocalypse, the dance on the edge of the cliff. Tomorrow is Ohio, Illinois, Florida, Missouri and somewhere else.

Tomorrow is Ohio Governor John Kasich and his last stand and chance in his home state, where he is currently favored (but not by much).

Tomorrow is the last stand and chance for Marco Rubio, once the best and last hopes of the establishment, but considerably reduced. Little Marco indeed.

If Kasich and Rubio don’t win in Ohio and Florida, they are, to put it in the parlance of Donald Trump, outta here.

Tomorrow, the pundits, strategists and consultants will tell you, is the last chance of the Republican establishment to stop Donald Trump.

Fat chance.

Throughout this campaign, I’ve often thought of the great Japanese director Akira Kurosawa’s film version of “King Lear,” which ends with a blind jester dancing precariously at the edge of a cliff.

Nothing so elegant is a part of the American political process these days. It is more akin to March Madness — and not the basketball version that is in progress and is about as tame as a bunch of kittens knitting compared to the politics that are currently being practiced.

We’ve come a long way to where we are now — and it’s not even worth talking about working class white anger, or deadlock in Washington or the erosion of jobs and all the causes thereof. We’ve come a long way since Trump opened his campaign with talk of a big wall on the Southwest border paid for by Mexico, and images of Mexican rapists streaming across the border.

These are the verbal bricks — inchoate, inarticulate but big and bombastic — from which Trump has built a presidential campaign that now threatens to be a runaway train. Some people are desperately trying to chase it and jump on like Depression-era drifters, while others are trying to sabotage it with arcane political strategies: robocalls from Mitt Romney, Rubio urging his Ohio supporters to vote for Kasich.

In the last two weeks or so, things have gotten so bad that at one time Rubio and Trump were talking about small hands and other appendages. They dug in like bulls in suits in a sandbox, and things were heard on the campaign trail that no one had ever heard before outside of “The Sopranos.”

Trump — whatever the cause, whoever the supporters — had blotted out the political sun. Could it get much worse, people were asking?

Well, yes.

We have entered the physical combat stage of the campaign, where the government may finally have to send boots on the ground. Over the weekend, a 78-year-old man sucker-punched a black man being led out of a Trump rally. In Chicago, protestors — or disruptors according to Trump, with his gift for coining new words — clashed with Trump supporters in the streets and managed to force Trump to cancel a rally. For Chicago folks with a long memory, it recalled bad memory of the riots around the 1960 Democratic convention.

Lots of other things happened, locally and nationally and around the world. There was the death of Supreme Court Justice Anthony Scalia, which politicized the court, which is already politicized. Former First Lady Nancy Reagan passed away gracefully in her 90s amid praise and sorrow. But it was all Trump in the end.

Trump ratcheted up his rhetoric even more, while every pundit on television tried to get him to apologize or take responsibility for the increasingly violent atmosphere surrounding his rallies.

People say that he speaks out and says the things that everyone else is afraid to say, that he has found the heart of the forgotten man. But his is an oddly insulting kind of language, full of short phrases, big adjectives, violent imagery, repetition, delivered not with inspiration but with a kind of stubborn bravado. Somehow, the not-quite-self-made-billionaire who’s never had to worry a moment in his life if he’d have a job the next day, let alone a meal, has bonded with the working man who worries about this all of the time.

It’s strange times when Saturday Night Live, which usually follows or precedes primaries and debates, can, in its caricatures and outrageous imitations, seem like a documentary.

But here we are. Tomorrow is Tuesday.

Can anybody trump Trump?

It may turn out to be that only Trump can trump Trump.