At this point, we have lived with the idea of the pee tape for so long that it almost feels as if we have already seen it, or at least stills from it. A friend told me that, when she envisions the scene at the Ritz Carlton, she always pictures Trump in an undershirt and boxer shorts, with sock garters and brown shoes. Another friend, a bit abashed, said that worrying over the tape has brought him to ponder whether pee fetishists prefer clear or dark-yellow urine. A third, exacting friend said that it bothers him when people get it wrong and claim that the prostitutes peed on Trump rather than on the bed. To me, the oddest detail of all is the idea that defiling the bed after rather than before the Obamas occupied that Moscow suite—a years-late voodoo ritual—might count as taking revenge on the then President and First Lady. It is this bizarre logic that in fact seems most like Trump, with his crazed rage at perceived enemies and fixation on old offenses—chronology be damned!—and it is what might ultimately count as the true perversity here.