Every time I think we’ve hit rock bottom, it turns out there’s another layer underneath. And another. Aaaaaannnnd another.

I had considered watching last night’s GOP “debate,” certain that the lesser evils would be going after the big one hammer and tongs. But I decided against it, not wanting to give Fox the eyeballs, and instead followed along via The New York Times live updates.

Hijo, madre, puto, cabron.

Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy a good dick joke as much as the next fella (“Yeah, and it deep, too!”). But these dicks were decidedly unfunny, like the Original Dick, Richard Milhaus Nixon, who wandered the White House full of cheap hooch and arguing with the paintings when he wasn’t using the Constitution as a coaster for his gin mug or a wipe for his bum.

Monkeys came to mind. Specifically, King Kong atop the Empire State Building. Then feral dogs, as in the final few paragraphs of Chapter 3 of “The Call of the Wild.” And finally, “Animal House.”

Fox and Megyn Kelly clearly came prepared to give Mooselini the sort of terminal wedgie which would insure that only feral dogs could hear him for the remainder of this campaign cycle. He’s the belligerent drunk that nobody wants at the party, even the Republican Party. But none of these pampered poodles — not Marco 3P0, not Texas Ted Cruz, the Gucci Shitkicker, and certainly not the RomneyBot Mark IV — could give him the heave-ho last night, and he’s still at it this morning.

Somebody tell Reince Priebus he’s gonna need a bigger dick. Dog. Whatever.