By now, you’ve heard about the tomato-tosser at Donald Trump’s rally in Iowa City, IA on Tuesday evening. I didn’t have to hear about it. I was there.

Let me begin by saying that, true to form, the media has delivered a farce, either by design or by garden variety incompetence. This is what you can expect when the journalistic vetting process is: “Is it trending?”

The primary source for most news stories covering the event is here: https://www.rt.com/usa/330376-protester-tomato-trump-rally/

This article has since been “corrected.” Originally, it stated that the person who threw the tomato, and the person wearing “HEIL TRUMPLER 2016,” were one and the same. That is the truth.

I am not a journalist. I was at this event as an observer. I’m currently pursuing a PhD in Contemporary Anthropology at the University of Iowa. I attended the Trump rally as part of my course work. As an Iowa City resident and U of I student, I knew the staunchly liberal community would turn out in force to protest Mr. Trump. This in mind, given Trump’s flamboyancy on the campaign trail, as well as the zealous loyalty of his supporters, I prepared myself for high passions and flaring tempers.

I never thought things would go as far as they did.

As I waited in the U of I Field House for Mr. Trump to take the stage, I noticed an odd phenomenon: all throughout the crowd, supporters of Donald Trump (or “Trumpanzees,” as they now prefer to be called) were using what appeared to me to be large asthma inhalers. When a refrigerator-shaped Trumpanzee in front of me produced and used such a device, I tapped him on his colossal shoulder and asked what he was doing.

“Whip-its!” he exclaimed. He was a neighborly man, as he handed me the device, which I have since identified. Here is a picture and description of it: http://www.bestwhip.net/black-suede-1-pint-whip-cream-dispenser-with-chargers-for-34-90.html?gclid=CIWf66DSzcoCFZY0aQodqOkAjw . Only after performing some research online did I understand what I was witnessing.

The device, intended for dispensing whipped cream, delivers a blast of nitrous oxide, which provides an intense but short-lived high. Despite the federal Drug War, this mode of intoxication, apparently, is perfectly legal.

At first, I didn’t understand how all these pressurized canisters had made it through the metal detectors at the door. I spoke with Secret Service members at the Field House, though, and learned that exception is made for these whip-it devices, as they are ubiquitously popular among Trumpanzees.

My personal observation corroborates this claimed popularity: all around me, with white frothy mouths and distant eyes, Trumpanzees periodically huffed deeply upon whip cream dispensers. This would continue throughout the entirety of the evening’s events, including Mr. Trump’s taking the podium and the violence that followed.

In true form to his rock-star persona, Mr. Trump arrived an hour late. By then, the crowd, sardined in the event hall, were tired of waiting quietly. The room, which had been a filled with the white noise of a thousand conversations and the clanging of God-knows-how-many empty nitrous canisters on the floor, erupted into chanting:

“BOMB AG-RA-BAH!”

“BOMB AG-RA-BAH!”

“BOMB AG-RA-BAH!”

Amidst these Earth-rattling chants, Donald Trump emerged onstage riding a gold-encrusted Segway. When he pumped his fist to the rhythm, the gibbering din of the Trumpanzees grew louder. As they stomped their feet, I thought their fervor would bring down the building. The Leader, with a wave of his perfectly bronzed hand, commanded silence from his followers.

Mr. Trump’s onstage statements are a transcribed matter of public record, so in the interest of brevity, I’ll not repeat them here. I’m not sure how long Mr. Trump addressed the crowd before calling Bernie Sanders a communist. I am sure that was the moment when the social fabric of the room began to unravel.

I didn’t see the first tomato fly, but I heard the gasps of the crowd, and my searching eyes spotted the second. I traced the tomato’s arch back to a young man wearing a white T-shirt, upon which “HEIL TRUMPLER 2016” was handwritten. I’d seen him earlier, in the lull before Mr. Trump’s arrival.

He had passed by me, this protester, and the neighborly gentleman huffing a whip-it beside me addressed him: “You better watch out, you hippie loser. If I see you again, I’m going to beat you into a coma.” He was an honest and reliable man, this Trumpanzee, because the second tomato had hardly hit the ground when the hulking gentleman seized upon the petite protester.

I only saw a few seconds of the brutality, of those bloodied blows. Within moments, a pack of five or six Trumpanzees were huddled into a circle, clobbering the young protester nearly to death. Secret Service ushered forth, and dragged away the dripping, limp remnant of that man. His white shirt, now red, still declared “HEIL TRUMPLER 2016.”

Perhaps, written in blood, the words became imbued with magic.

“HEIL TRUMP-LER!”

“HEIL TRUMP-LER!”

“HEIL TRUMP-LER!”

For everything negative that can be said of the man, I owe my life to Donald J. Trump. Had he not taken control of that crowd, I am positive, they would have degenerated to a truly primal state, ripped to ribbons myself and all other obvious outsiders, and fallen to the floor for a blood orgy.

The rest of the rally unfolded without substantial incident. Mr. Trump was joined onstage by several U of I athletes, and to my observation, this show of support genuinely moved the real estate billionaire. His hegemony not yet electorally formalized, Mr. Trump promised those student athletes on stage that, the day he is sworn in as President of Greater America, he will officially induct each and every one of them into the Trumpler Youth.

And that was that. I went home, fortunate to be alive, and ate the best-tasting meal of my life. It was Easy Mac, with curry powder stirred in. Curious and concerned for the young man who’d been beaten to a bloody pulp, I turned on the news. There, I saw a petit-looking man identified as the arrested tomato-thrower, but it was not the protester from the rally. The man on T.V. had mutton chops, a moustache, and a black shirt. This perplexed me.

I can only deduce that the original protester, the one who wore a white T-shirt that read “HEIL TRUMPLER 2016,” has been fucked to death by Trumpanzees.

After the viral video of those tomatoes flying toward Mr. Trump’s meticulously groomed head, someone, I suppose, had to be arrested. It couldn’t be the actual tomato-tosser, as propping his raggedy pulp before a news camera would make Trump and his Trumpanzees appear to be callous and base creatures, creatures virtually indistinguishable from the apes in Space Odyssey 2001.

The ones that didn’t touch the Monolith, that is.

And that would be downright disrespectful. And unfairly reductive. I can understand why the Secret Service must have felt the need to offer up an unbeaten hipster scapegoat. Mr. Trump will never realize his dream to Make America Great Again if the media, which has been poisoned against Mr. Trump from the start, is allowed to put a negative spin on Trumpanzees by reporting on what they actually do and are in favor of doing.

After all, that’s the bottom-line reason why Donald Trump is so appealing, because when you break all the mirrors and point all the fingers, no one ever gets the chance to examine their own behavior. No one ever has to ask themselves if they’ve been a responsible captain of their own soul.

We can rest assured that we must be the greatest people ever to live, because everybody else is a bunch of losers.

#HeilTrumpler