The best part of last night's Trump presser: poor Chris Christie. Look at him over there, his eyes darting like forlorn pinballs. Alone like a forgotten "Bachelor" from episode one. No rose for you, little guy.
He's like Ben Carson at the debates. He's like me at gym class: everyone is climbing the rope. Not him. He has a note from the doctor.
It's not a presser. It's a depressor. Looks like he could use a hug, but Obama is nowhere in sight.
Trump placed him there as a symbol of support or, perhaps a symbol of submission, like a professional angler getting a picture with that big fish he just caught.
Pity when the alpha goes beta, bested through strength and aggression. They become your jacket holder, a tail between their cheeks.
Christie is now the reluctant henchman. He reminds me of "L.A. Confidential's" Bud White, the conflicted thug who did Captain Dudley Smith's dirty work. He took people out -- like Rubio. His only way out, earning accolades from daddy. But he's still sad.
He's not the only one. Many men are reduced to cheerleading status when taken in by celebrity and power, their happiness predicated on the attention from papa.
For Christie, his first love was Bruce Springsteen. Christie tailed him like a drooling puppy. At least Trump let's him hang around in the rear.
But this is about career as a choice between principle and survival, between individuality and tribalism, between the bandwagon and the boonies. We know which way Chris went. He's not the first. And he certainly will not be the last.