Chris Christie ate the meatloaf.

And now he wants us to forget.

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, Chris Christie was a man with autonomy. A man with pride. Did that pride often outsize the reality of his worth? Sure. But he’s from Jersey — and along with our tomatoes, our corn and the Boss, an outsized ego is kind of a thing here. Did that autonomy often equal overstepping his authority? Abusing his power? Sure. But again, see: Jersey. There was a time when he was respected, deservedly or not. And then he ate the meatloaf, figuratively and quite literally, and that’s when it all went wrong.

‘There’s the menu, you guys order whatever you want.’ And then he says, ‘Chris, you and I are going to have the meatloaf.'”

Maybe Chris didn’t WANT the meatloaf. Maybe he didn’t even LIKE meatloaf. Maybe he was deathly allergic to meatloaf. Maybe he was a vegetarian. Maybe it went against his religion. Maybe he had PTSD about meatloaf because there was that one time his mom made it and she burned her hand and said “fuck” and it scared him so badly that he peed his pants, and that pee went all over the kitchen floor, and then the 12 year old family dog who was named Lucky came in and (unluckily) slipped in little Chris’ pee pee and broke it’s hip and later had to be put down all because of that infamously slippery wee Chris Christie pee pee. Maybe, just maybe he wasn’t going to order the fucking meatloaf because he wasn’t going to let some neon Fucking doofus he had known for decades was a conman, a criminal, and an absolute Fucking idiot TELL him that he was going to eat the meatloaf…

And then… he ate the meatloaf.