“Former Trump White House aide Cassidy Hutchinson testified on Tuesday that former President Trump was so upset that then-Attorney General William Barr dismissed claims of widespread election fraud that he threw his lunch at the wall in the West Wing dining room… ‘I first noticed there was ketchup dripping down the wall, and there was a shattered porcelain plate,’ Hutchinson testified to the House panel.” — The Hill, 6/28/22
Now you know. The explosive January 6th hearing testimony of Cassidy Hutchinson revealed many things, like how the former president wanted to remove metal detectors to let his armed supporters attend the rally and storm the Capitol. Or how he didn’t want to do anything to stop the violence. Or that Mike Pence “deserved it.” Or that he assaulted a Secret Service agent with his tiny hands.
You also now know what I’ve always known — Donald J. Trump is a clear and present danger. Tiny hands may struggle to open a bottle, but they are more than capable of toppling a democracy.
A little about me. I’m a Heinz 57 glass ketchup bottle. That’s really it. I’m not that complicated. I mean, I have a secret blend of fifty-seven…somethings, but other than that, I live a simple life. Like any bottle of ketchup, I want to make the world a better place. I’m sweet. Not everybody likes me, but outside of maniacs in Chicago eating hot dogs, everyone recognizes I’m a force for good.
And I live in constant fear. I don’t remember much about my early days in Pittsburgh, but I’ve spent the last eighteen months at Mar-a-Lago. It’s a house of horrors, and I’m talking about more than just the interior design and the sinkholes.
I’ve seen too many friends meet what we call “The Wall.” When he gets angry, we get scared. And he gets angry a lot. Sometimes he gets mad about people saying he should be in prison for trying to overthrow the government, sometimes because he can’t drink water from a glass, or sometimes because his hands are too tiny to cut his well-well-done steak. Sometimes he’s not even eating. One time he got back from trying to walk down a ramp and was so mad he ordered food just to throw it against a wall. We lost Darryl that day. Every time his ire matches the color of his makeup, another friend meets The Wall.
I’m the last bottle left. Surrounded by plastic brothers and sisters who no longer are willing to risk their own safety to protect me. I keep telling them there’s this poem: “First they came for the mustard, and I did not speak out — because I was not mustard.” They don’t care. Most of them can’t read. I asked one if it supported the peaceful pouring of condiments, and it said, “I plead the fifth.” I’m alone here.
It’s terrifying, and I fear this evening may be my last. When Trump sits down at 4:30 p.m. to eat his well-well-done steak, I just pray his tiny hands don’t reach for me. But I know that if he is never held accountable, one day they will.