Last week in this space, as the tremors of Democratic electoral trepidation became so palpable that you could practically measure them on the Richter scale, I attempted to get ahead of the eruption of panic that has become as reliable a quadrennial ritual as the Al Smith dinner—only sweatier, more cacophonous, less easily ignored. I may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I’m not a moron (okay, not a total moron), so I was under no illusions that my effort to inject a semblance of level-headed rationality and even-keeled perspective into the political ether would have any effect whatever on the freak-out that was clearly about to commence. But even I didn’t anticipate the ferocity of 2024’s burst of blue-state bedwetting—a paroxysm of piddle that makes past episodes of this kind look like a mere sprinkle of tinkle.