The skies over California are inappropriately sunny today.  Just after sunrise, when I was in the backyard looking for the carcass of whatever it was I shot last night that I heard rifling through the trash, I turned the sun, that hateful star of ours, with disgust and umbrage and told it to, “Read the room.”  These are dark days indeed, dear reader.  My beloved state is under attack from both ends: a mob of foreigners and paid anti-American sheep on one end, and a moronic, botoxic, sociopathic governor who seems to think that prioritizing foreigners’ fictitious right to wave Mexican and Palestinian flags while assaulting police and burning American flags and what’s left of L.A. down over the safety and rights of legal residents will somehow make him a viable candidate for the Democratic presidential nomination.  Approval ratings, shmapproval ratings.

I’ve been doing what I can, but to no avail.  I’ve tried communicating with Gavin using every method available.  In much of that communication, I have been polite and civil, even friendly.  In others, I’ve lampooned him viciously, challenging him to MMA fights, public debates…I even invited him to participate in the pilot program of a new sport I’m developing tentatively called Whiskey Croquet (I’m still workshopping the name and most of the rules).  And what has his response been?  Nothing.  Nada.  Squat.  Even his office has been non-responsive: not even a courtesy form letter.

Not knowing what else to do, I sat down this morning to pen yet another letter of invective to this idiot, hoping maybe this will be the one to break through.

Dear Governor Newsom,
You fucking putz.  You festering clot of political hubris. You sanctimonious trainwreck. You’ve spent the last seven years gleefully torching California into a smoldering ash-heap of your own making, and I am here for the public excoriation you’re just starting to receive, that you so richly deserve.
I watched your dumbass “national address” the other night.  Jesus.  You couldn’t even figure out your audio.  Clown.
This state, once a glittering beacon of  innovation and freedom, now staggers under your pitiful reign of error – economy gutted by your hypocritical lockdowns, streets drowning in a fetid soup of homelessness you’ve ignored with the callous shrug of a dilettante dictator.  Taxes?  Skyrocketing like your ego, you preening weenie, while small businesses collapse under the weight of your ludicrous regulatory overreach.  Wildfires rage, water dries up, and you smirk through it all, posing with your artisanal French Laundry receipts as if governance were nothing more than a photo op.
You stupid douche.  Seven years of your blundering, self-aggrandizing misrule have turned the Golden State into a cautionary tale, a punchline spat out by a nation watching in disgusted awe.
I’m done.  I’m packing my bags, you insufferable charlatan, and heading for a state where competence isn’t a foreign concept – maybe Wyoming…fuck it, maybe even Idaho, ferchrissake!  Somewhere where sanity still draws breath.  This rotten cesspool you’ve sculpted with your incompetent, clammy hands isn’t worth the psychic toll anymore.
But wait – damn it to hell – logistics rear their ugly heads, and as my assistant just delicately pointed out, I can’t just up and move.  Not any time soon, anyway.  To which I said (and say) “balls!”  She makes a valid point.  So I’m shackled here, at least until 2028, trapped in your dystopian circus like a rat in a maze of your own inept and perverse design.
So, fine.  You win this round, you smug architect of ruin.  But mark my words, Newsom – I’m not slinking away.  No…if I can leave, then I’m turning this rage into a campaign.  In 2026, I’m throwing my hat into the ring, running for governor to wrest this state from your greasy paws.  I’ll campaign with the fire of a thousand suns, promising to undo your catastrophic legacy – restore jobs, clean the streets, and govern with a spine, not a fucking selfie stick.  Get ready, shitbag, because the reckoning’s coming, and you will finally be sent packing back to your Napa wine caves. 

Yr. brother in Christ,
Jayson

Nice.  Subtle, but not too.  I felt better, but I knew it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.  It seems clear, now, after I’ve had a few shots of Jack to calm down, that I must run for Governor of California.  I have to make today’s wordcount on the book, so I can’t do anything today, but tomorrow!  Shit yes…tomorrow we begin.

N.P.: “Fighting Trousers” – Professor Elemental