Jim Mashek

PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD … MAKE. IT. STOP.

Sometime on Sunday night, in the nation’s capital, Donald Trump will show the world the true depth of his depravity.

They’ve built a monstrosity on the South Lawn of the White House, see, and the Grifter In Chief is turning 80 years old. He wants to see grown men — are there women gladiators in this thing, too? — get in a cage and pummel the hell out of each other.

To borrow a phrase from another nut job, Australian infomercial queen Susan Powter:

STOP THE INSANITY.

Yes, we’ve learned a lot about Trump’s obsessions over the years. We’re still waiting on the unredacted Trump/Epstein files, but that’s another story for another day. Mob lawyer Todd Blanche and his disgraced predecessor, alleged Attorney General Pam Bondi, have covered for the convicted felon on that front.

For months.

Memo to Diaper Donnie:

You don’t OWN the White House.

You own your cult, your so-called “constituents,” but you’re a steward of that property. Nothing more. Until the U.S. Congress — in particular, the Republicans in the House Of Representatives — actually grows a spine to stop your lawlessness once and for all.

I want nothing to do with this so-called “Celebration of American Independence,” and a couple of long-shot lawsuits have been filed in federal court to stop the madness.

Human cockfighting on the South Lawn.

What’s next, public executions in the East Wing?

No, wait, Trump’s already obliterated that structure. Lawlessly, of course.

I went through a phase, me and my three younger brothers, of watching, uh, “professional wrestling,” on the tube. When I was in seventh grade, if memory serves, my next-door neighbor and I even went to one of the late, not-so-great Paul Boesch’s “Houston Wrestling” tapings back in the day, at the Sam Houston Coliseum.

Not that my Dad would take me.

Not on your life.

Me and my homeboy rode in his Dad’s station wagon, downtown, and I wore a bright orange sweater. (Not the University of Texas’ burnt orange, but close …)

I wanted to get on TV.

And I did.

I can see my mother’s eye roll right now.

My buddy and I made our way down to the ring — look, I invented “act like you own the place” — when they did TV commercials between bouts.

The “show” was taped on Saturday nights, and replayed on Sunday afternoons, and I guess that was the day I learned that the TV camera adds 10 pounds.

All of this is for show.

It’s a recipe for disaster, too.

We already know it’s a money grab.

That’s how the twice-impeached Bankruptcy King rolls.

The non-profit Public Integrity Project’s lawsuit reads:

“This plan is deeply corrupt. UFC Freedom is a private, for-profit sporting event being ‘planned, organzied, and executed’ by the UFC, its broadcast partners, and its advertisers, not by the federal government …”

You don’t say …

Continuing:

“And it is not in any material sense a ‘celebration of the 250th anniversary of American Independence — it is, instead, a celebration of the UFC’s brand and the 80th anniversary of Donald Trump’s birth.

“For these reasons, UFC Freedom 250 does not satisfy the strict conditions that must be satisfied for special semiquincentennial events to occur on the South Lawn, or at the Lincoln Memorial.”

Oh yeah, they plan to soil Abe’s neighborhood, too.

I’ve been dreading this insane spectacle for a long time.

I’ve grown more than a little tired of Trump’s smug mug, and the idea that he has to disrupt every big-time sporting event known to man.

Game Three of the NBA Finals, at Madison Square Garden, on Monday night, for example.

I grew up in Houston and Metro Washington. My late father worked in the District of Columbia for four decades and change, covering national politics. Mom and Dad moved into the city, after my youngest brother graduated from college.

Mom passed in 2020, less than two months before Joe Biden cleaned Donnie’s clock in the presidential election.

And he still hasn’t gotten over it.

Here’s an idea.

Get in there your own self, Mr. Trump. They won’t have any trouble finding your opponent.