On Tuesday evening, New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie stood beside his new master as that master gave a news conference from his Mar-A-Lago estate in Palm Beach, Florida. That is where Christie lives now.

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Thus far, poorly-drawn fascist Donald Trump had won Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee, Massachusetts, and Virginia. He would go on to take Arkansas and Vermont, racking up a total of 285 delegates and making him the likely winner of the GOP nomination.

As Trump verbally fiddled with the semantic difference between “making America great again” and “making America whole again” (the former is better, he says), Christie’s eyes shifted among the crowd, then became hollow and terrified as he seemingly realized that he had indentured himself into political servitude. Now, he was Goyle, he was Mini Me, he was Head Storm Trooper.

Turn that Vine’s sound on. Here’s what’s behind those eyes, we think:

That was supposed to be me.

Now Bruce Springsteen will never accept my sleepover invitations.

New Jersey revoked my residency.

I used to be friends with so many Jews.

He has someone lock the door when I go to sleep.

Morse code “Help.”

He took all my pillows.

His plane smells like old people.

I’m going to be the 21st century’s Joseph Goebbels.

Fuck.

I’m not allowed in delis anymore.

Mary Pat won’t look at me in the eyes.

When I hugged him, chunks of hair fell out.

Is this what dead feels like.

Maybe, maybe, it is.


Contact the author at joanna@jezebel.com.

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