At present, I’m getting outwitted by a militant parade of drunken white walker zombie ants. Collectively they might have a comparable number of brain cells to what I’m currently sporting, but who knows? I don’t know how the wattage works between species.

Anyway, there could be a googol of the nosy insects in their Casselton, N.D., colony and the “Mad Queen” has made a lot of loco stress-inducing demands on the working caste. Her Highness keeps the teeny, cocky, bastard ant traffic constantly moving east on Interstate 94 to inspect my kitchen counters.

I assume they seek asylum somewhere in Minnesota after praying to the water faucet. It’s what I would do under the circumstances. But what do I know is my point.

I do know that we have an insect of a president who is an aggressively ignorant illegitimate disgrace of his species. Everybody knows that. I knew he was a shady, oily muskrat when he was traipsing around Manhatten like a debutante in the 1960’s and ’70s with a painful malady of Vietnamitis. Ask Howard Stern. He knows.

Donnie has slipped the noose hundreds of times in his life and has been functionally unrestrained in the White House, except by staffers who refused to carry out his orders, since day one of his presidency.

Not this time.

At this moment, we can see that Trump isn’t going to finish the game. As more truckloads of evidence pile up, it almost seems like running up the score on a helpless opponent. He’ll violently thrash in the net, but the uncorrupted air will tire the rare and ruthless hyena fish at some point.

Personally, I’m a little more relaxed knowing that the skunk is in the burlap bag and the bag has been tossed into one of Trump’s kid cages. Kevin Cramer says the chain link is totally humane. Who’s to argue with fence boy?

But even if Trump quits tomorrow, goes back to the New York penthouse and drags Mike Pence with him, the show must go on. Not for our amusement, but to uncover the slime under each rock the weasel ever touched.

Still, this investigation can’t be like 9/11, when George Bush got to sit on Dick Cheney’s lap during his interview with the 9/11 Commission. Its report stopped short of telling us where the buck stopped and Bush was able to easily bust out of his restraints.

The commission didn’t redact information. It simply omitted details.

Like why did no one warn the Pentagon that an airliner was headed towards D.C.? We knew it for a fact when Flight 77 was more than a few minutes out.

Then, W used his 9/11 failure to his electoral advantage and to make himself a hero for standing on the rubble three days later, clutching an old firefighter, and shouting into a bullhorn.

Bush missed his primary job requirement by miles, ended up in Nebraska, but he was supposedly good in the aftermath of the attacks. So what? We don’t need rubble standers.

That wasn’t leadership. He had his chance to protect the country, failed, and all we got was an irregular T-shirt, lies and multiple wars. Bush people and George himself maintained that there was no warning and blamed bad intelligence. That’s not true, but it’s still a talking point for apologists to this day.

And you can’t switch horses in midstream of a war we were told. I don’t know why. The horses don’t care, and Bush surely didn’t know what he was doing on his mount. But the man who botched 9/11 and attacked the wrong country so he could be sitting on a warhorse before an election, beat John Kerry in 2004. What would John Kerry know about war?

Have we ever done an autopsy on the Iraq fiasco? If so, I missed it. It seems important not to repeat the same mistakes and to hold people accountable for all of the death, lost limbs, PTSD, displacement of millions and serious issues that continue until this day because several men and women thought “shock and awe” was a good idea.

And Hurricane Katrina was a royal f**k up. How many of the 2,000 casualties didn’t have to die if competence was a requirement, instead of putting some clown named Brownie in charge?

What was the Bush administration doing as the Great Recession became predictable?

Now George is painting with his toes in the bathtub or something down in Dallas. No remorse and plenty of hot water. His ranching days were suspended in 2009 after the ‘clearing-the-brush” cowboy character lost its purpose.

Trump is no George W. Bush. DT’s willingness to dish out suffering is emblematic of a sociopath, while George was just dim, uninterested and surrounded by connivers. He wasn’t bright enough to conspire his way out of West Acres.

Donald Rumsfeld, even with his reptilian brain, wouldn’t work for the current snake. Because of his age though. Rummy wouldn’t have a moral issue. Plus Trump would consider him too elvish.

This nation needs to run up the score on Donald Trump, even if he should pass away, to ward off any other confidence men or women of Trumpish ilk and sleaze and have a complete historical record.

Of course, some people will say that putting mastermind Trump and his illegal antics behind us will “heal of the nation.” It won’t heal me. We’re all terminal, anyway.

Holding back on this wretched character is a bad idea. Oh, that nice Gerald Ford sure healed the nation when he pardoned Richard Nixon, many said. Life went on like it did the day before. I was there. Nobody put two chickens into my pot.

Making a deal with Bill Clinton didn’t satisfy anybody. His name still comes up because people haven’t been assured of anything. True or false.

Barack Obama gave something to the nation by calling the dogs off the Bush gang? How? By depriving the people of information?

People currently being harmed by a Trump policy give the great ape a bargaining chip. He’ll hold hostages of some sort. He’s already shown the cruelty.

But nothing will heal by letting this overripe 300-pound organ grinder peacefully drive his golf cart off to Mar-a-Lago in some grand deal that would make Nancy Pelosi president for some months.

We can look forward and back at the same time, and I don’t want the millions of people who are responsible for blessing all of us with a Trump to forget what they unleashed.

I don’t care if every investigation lasts 40 years, the rancid goo will drip out every day onto the forehead of those aforementioned millions of people every night until they understand what they did. They need to learn a daily lesson until the word deceased is noted on their driver’s license.

Investigate under each of Donnie’s chins and the expensive lint between his stubby toes.

Find every laundered dollar and each person 45 ever screwed out of their money. Or just screwed.

Uncover every Russian who owns a Trump property or is checked off in Don’s bride catalog.

Jon Meacham isn’t needed to explain how historians will look back on this shithole period, but he’ll tell us anyway. Doris Kearns Goodwin won’t shut up for  years.

At least we won’t need to fuss with any Trump statues except for the one in Kevin Cramer’s pants. Why he keeps it there, I have no idea.