Last night, Donald Trump proved himself to be unfit to be mayor of Podunk, never mind POTUS.  In short, he’s gone beyond simply being a self-obsessed jerk and ventured into wholesale rectal territory.

I don’t use the word I tweeted last night often; in fact, I practically never use it, being the square Christian prude I am.  Like Auntie Em, I try to hold my tongue: “For twenty-three years, I’ve been dying to tell you what I thought of you! And now… well, being a Christian woman, I can’t say it!”  But I did tweet it.

It happened about an hour and a quarter into the debate, after the first couple of tangles Trump had with Jeb Bush.  I’ll give Trump credit for calling out CNN, Hugh Hewitt, and the entire American media corps for baiting every other candidate to attack him.  That’s true.  But the “unfair” pout is about as disingenuous as General MacArthur’s impromptu arrival on the beach in Leyte.  As in, staged, blocked, framed and rehearsed.

Trump wants to be attacked.

He loves being attacked, and the only thing he loves more than that is crushing his enemies.  And it’s never enough for Trump to simply win.  Like Gore Vidal or Lex Luthor, for Trump, it is not merely enough to win; others must lose.

Trump, practically single-handedly, rendered Jeb Bush’s campaign impotent.  Oh, Jeb had a hand in it, mostly by hitting back like a schoolgirl who had gum stuck in her hair by the class bully.  But Trump knows that Jeb doesn’t hit back, and he can’t resist piling on.

Finally, after Trump’s eye-rolling and acid commentary “You’re real tough, Jeb,” Bush had enough and told the super-villain billionaire “You’re never going to insult your way to the presidency.”  That’s absolutely true: Trump will not be president, but it’s not because of the insults. It’s because of his total lack of humility or class.

Bush won’t be president either, and he’s coming to terms with that. But Trump has to remind him at every opportunity. “Well, let’s see, I’m at 42 and you’re at three!” That’s not politics, it’s personal, and it’s not so Trump can pick up three more points in the polls.  Trump could praise Bush and not worry about losing a single vote to him. He could be so sweet that Bush would need insulin and never look in the rearview mirror.

But instead, he chooses, by his own will, to be—the word I used in my tweet.

I might be okay with a curmudgeon in the White House. I could live with a crook (look, Bill Clinton wasn’t a total disaster, although he is a moral black hole). I would suffer through a self-righteous busybody. But there’s three people for whom I would never, ever cast a vote: Barack Obama (thank God he can’t run again), Hillary Clinton (the Godzilla of curmudegon-crook-busybody, plus she’s married to the black hole), and now Donald Trump.

If it came down to Clinton and Trump in the general election, I’d stay home, and, among other things, lament that I chose the wrong week to sniffing glue, drinking moonshine, and swearing.  What a pisser.