Watching Donald Trump lurch from erratic to downright despicable behavior, I find myself shaking my head in dismay, but am I surprised? By the Donald?

Never.

The man is the very picture of consistency. No matter what the circumstances or stakes, when the chips are down, Donald will be, well, Donald.

His demeanor reminds me of Orson Welles’ favourite parable, the one about the scorpion and the frog. I’m sure you’re familiar with it but, just in case, here it is, recited by the Master himself:

The allusion, methinks, is fairly obvious.

Whether it’s shaming an ex-beauty queen or sparring with the bereaved parents of a dead American serviceman, the Donald constantly gives the impression that he just can’t help himself.

Stung by his poor performance in the first presidential debate, the alleged billionaire had to lash out at somebody. What was the name of that gal Hillary referenced in one of her tiresome talking points? Bingo! It’s three in the morning, can’t sleep, guts are acting up, I’ll have a go at her…

That such a mindset is hardly, er, presidential, doesn’t really enter into it. Cultivating a statesmanlike persona is difficult when you’re continually resorting to groin shots and head butts, biting in the clinches. Not sporting, you say? F**k you, pal! You don’t like it, grow thicker skin. Where’s your sense of humour?

This is America, after all: brash, disrespectful, rude. The bad boy of the international scene. USA, dude. Love it or leave it.

Other commentators have described the current poisonous state of American politics, the toxic effect money and the access to power it buys has had on democratic institutions.

The mere fact that a man with the history and background of Donald Trump is one of the last two individuals contesting for the highest office in the land says a lot about the “state of the union”—bad, very bad indeed.

The notion that somehow, through some distortion of reality I cannot comprehend, there are millions of salt of the earth, working class citizens out there actually rooting for the Donald, intending to (God spare their immortal souls) vote for the man, come November 8th, bespeaks of a spirit of profound helplessness and despair present in the American psyche. A drowning man grasping the point of a sword and all that.

But, maybe, and this is just a thought, there’s a method to Trump’s madness. I’m not talking about some bizarre strategy to get himself elected and never mind what the pundits and spin doctors say. I’m proposing that his frequent lapses in judgement, the many times he’s gone “off reservation”, picked fights when he didn’t have to, are actually part of a careful campaign of self-sabotage.

Hear me out.

I believe that as far as the Donald’s concerned, the race is everything and the thought of taking the oath of office, assuming the burdens of being the President of the United States, bores the living hell out of him. Can you imagine D.T. enduring an endless state dinner on behalf of a potentate from some African “republic” or South American kleptocracy, trying to make small talk, grinning through the ordeal?

The mind reels.

No, the Donald has had his fun, his ego boost, but the game is starting to lose his interest. He’s done wonders for the Trump trademark, of course, and maybe that was part of his clever plan all along. When he loses, he goes back to his business empire (its true worth still very much in doubt), cashing in on his heightened media profile. Thanks to his Fox-fuelled campaign, he has successfully climbed and blustered and elbowed his way to the top of the celebrity food chain, assuring himself a place on the “A” list for years to come. Trump Hotels, Trump Casinos filled to capacity with punters hoping to catch a glimpse of that famous orange swatch of hair, ringed by bodyguards, bound for the penthouse, deigning to look neither right nor left.

“That man could have been president,” they’ll whisper among themselves.

As if it would have been a good thing.