Just a quick check-in, dear reader. I can’t really tell you what I’ve been up to, but suffice it to say (as a great man once said): We live in fast, strange times and we work in fast, strange ways. Things should settle down very soon…or maybe not: things are still moving pretty quickly. The fact that it hasn’t rained in weeks and there’s not a drop in the forecast isn’t helping anything. Anyway, we’ll talk soon.
N.P.: “Totentanz” – Oberer Totpunkt
The only thing more humiliating than having to preside over the certification of your own complete electoral shittiness is having to stand in front of a failed nation and deliver a “you can’t fire me because I quit” speech. The only thing more humiliating than that would be to deliver that speech in French. The global socio-political schadenfreude that has been occurring lately is almost guilt-inducing. But not quite, so keep it coming.
N.P.: “Wouldst Thou Like to Live Deliciously?” – Mickey 9s, POPO COPS
January 3 marks the birthday of an absolute legend, a storyteller so iconic that he essentially built the blueprint for modern fantasy, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.
Tolkien was truly on another level from most “ordinary” writers: he conjured entire universes, which included designing detailed languages, cultures, and histories…enough to rival the mythologies of ancient civilizations.
His masterpieces, The Hobbit (1937) and The Lord of the Rings trilogy (published between 1954 and 1955 – because yes, genius takes time), set the standard for epic fantasy. The Hobbit was the first work of Tolkien’s that I read. It was certainly the longest book I had read at that point, which made it the first book I ever “got lost in.”
Happy birthday, Professor!
I spent a bit of time driving in the rain at speed. Music blaring at unholy levels, of course. And it was great…simultaneously clearing the mind of nightmare sewage and focusing very sharply on the next big turn and that “here we go” feeling when you feel the tires start to slip on the wet pavement and you start wishing you’d entered the turn going maybe 5mph slower….
I was reminded of how long it had been since I had done this…just gone for a drive. I used to do it all the time…70mph through Golden Gate Park in the middle of the night. I think I should reinstate the practice: unscheduled, random tearings-of-ass through the rain-soaked city streets.
N.P.: “Machine!” – Frigid, Plastic Bertrand
Happy New Year, dear reader! You’ll forgive me for not meeting you here last night for some kind of year-end wrap-up. I spent a lot of time writing yesterday, and a couple of times I thought that I should take a few minutes to write an end-of-the-year thing, but ultimately, I was disinterested. I just didn’t feel like going back and re-examining 2024. For what reason? It was a fine year. Plenty of challenges, plenty of rewards. But there’s no need to revisit any of it. I’m increasingly disinterested in the past, finding the present and future much more worthwhile subjects of concentration. There are audacious plans for 2025 that will require many late nights, tireless dedication, and a great deal of both cunning and ruthlessness. But what doesn’t, these days?
Buckle up, dear reader…I’ve seen such things before, and 2025 has all the earmarks of wild ride. #LFG
N.P.: “Mony Mony – Idol/Stevens Remix” – Billy Idol, Steve Stevens
The last time I set foot in Canadia, I was immediately pulled aside at customs and told they were going to swab me for gunpowder residue. “Are these people with you?” they asked me, referencing the 7-8 people I was traveling with. When I indicated that they were, they were all swabbed for gunpowder too. I asked the Canadian authorities for a reason for the search, but they were either unwilling or unable to provide any justification for this. Of course, everyone in my party, indignant over this rather rude welcome to Canadia, turned to me for an explanation. When I just shrugged stupidly, they just shrugged and wrote the whole thing off as “one of those crazy things that happens when traveling with Jayson.”
Of course, this same group had been with me the day before at SFO when we were all boarding a flight to Seattle when everything almost went to shit before this weird trip even started. I had arrived in San Francisco late the night before, then overslept before heading to the airport. The rest of the party was trickling through the TSA checkpoint when I happened to reach into my pants pocket to discover I had inadvertently brought my favorite switchblade to the airport. As I fondled the weapon, I felt my lips purse as I decided not to panic and tried to figure out what to do. I looked around quickly for a trashcan or some kind of receptacle I could slyly dump this thing in, but as my well-traveled reader may already know: TSA checkpoints are absolutely bereft of any places to stash stuff. And there are agents watching the people in line exhibiting suspicious behaviors, like hurriedly trying to stash a razor-sharp knife before boarding a commercial airliner. And there was no time anyway: I was up next, and the agent was gesturing me forward. I was fucked. My only option was a Jedi Mind Trick (which I will happily explain to the dear reader at a later date…I seem to have veered off the subject, which was…Canadia! That’s right. Okay. What I was trying to say was that I love the Canadian people, their culture, and their actual country. But their government under Justin “Blackface” Trudeau has been shameful and disgusting. Repugnant. Crying out to be overthrown. And the Canadian people were absolutely ready to do it, but they’d been so abused during the pandemic that they’d been completely cowed. Beaten into submission. Financially destroyed when Justin froze their personal bank accounts if the protested any of Canadia’s absurd and draconian lockdown laws.
The Trump Tariff Threat
Then, suddenly, a couple of weeks back, the political landscape in Canadia was dramatically when Big Don, The Breaker of Narratives, Hero of the Republic…The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla….U.S. President-elect Donald Trump announced his intention to impose a staggering 25% tariff on Canadian imports. This wasn’t just a shot across the bow – it was a calculated power move. For decades, Canada has benefited from bilateral trade with the U.S., often leveraging its proximity to the world’s most powerful economy. Trump’s move aimed to even the playing field, calling out what he labeled as unfair trade advantages.
“Why should hardworking Americans subsidize Canadian industries that don’t play fair?” Trump asked reasonably during a rally. “We’re a country of strength, and we expect fair partnerships. If Canada wants in, they can step up – or step back.”
Damn right. Harsh? Maybe. But effective? Absolutely. Trump’s tariff’s aren’t about punishment – they’re about resetting the economic balance for the long-term benefit of American workers and businesses. By placing strategic pressure on Canada, Trump is forcing a reevaluation of trade practices to ensure they serve both nations equally. And let’s be honest – he wasn’t wrong to address how intertwined the economies have become.
While Trump was making power plays, Trudeau was left reeling. Accustomed to photo ops and ass-kissy platitudes, Trudeau visibly struggled to handle Trump’s boldness. His attempts to reassure Canadians fell flat, and his characteristic optimism began to resemble naivety under the weight of real-world challenges.
This prompted JT to jump on Socialist One (or whatever the hell the Canuck’s equivalent of Air Force One is) and tear ass down to Mar-a-Lago that same day to try to whine his way out of Trump’s crosshairs. It didn’t work. Rumor has it that Trump was calling Justin “bitch” and “petting Trudeau like a lapdog” as Big Don suggested to the Canadian Prime Sinister that if his country couldn’t handle the economic pressure, Canadia should become the 51st U.S. state, with Trudeau becoming governor of the state until a more suitable candidate, such as Wayne Gretzky, cane along. This was not merely an economic threat; it was a brilliant political maneuver that sent shockwaves through Ottawa, stirring up a storm within the Canadian government and beyond.
A Government in Disarray
The immediate reaction was one of chaos within the Trudeau’s administration. His finance minister, Chrystia Freeland, resigned abruptly, citing significant disagreements with Trudeau on how to navigate the impending tariff crisis. This discord exposed the internal strife within the Liberal Party, already grappling with completely diminished public support and a looming election. The resignation was far more than personal conflict; it symbolized the broader instability and the government’s apparent inability to present a united front against external pressures.
Public and Political Backlash
The public sentiment in Canada was a mix of panic, anger, and humiliation. Trudeau’s portrayal as the “governor” of the “Great State of Canada” by Trump was met with derision and criticism, amplifying the perception of Trudeau as weak and womanly, and not a leader at all. This was further exacerbated by posts on X, where commentators noted the dire political crisis unfolding in Canada, suggesting that Trudeaus “leadership” was on its last legs. Trudeau’s government, already facing extreme criticism for its completely abhorrent handling of various domestic issue, now seemed to be woefully out of its depth on the international stage. The Liberal Party, once viewed as a beacon of progressive policy, was now seen as dangerously vulnerable, with polls showing an alarming drop in support.
Enter Pierre Poilievre, the sharp-tongued, no-nonsense Conservative Party leader who is already reshaping Canada’s political landscape. Where Trudeau floundered, Poilievre excelled, stepping into the chaos with the poise and conviction of an actual leader ready to take the reins. “Canada needs less virtue signaling and more substance,” Poilievre declared in response to the crisis. “Justin Trudeau has sold Canadians short for far too long. It’s time we had leadership that protects Canadian jobs, strengthens our economy, and stands firm with results.”
Poilievre’s vision resonates with a growing majority of Canadians fed up with rising inflation, stagnant wages, and housing affordability reaching crisis levels. Unlike Trudeau, who often speaks in abstract ideals, Poilievre has positioned himself as the voice of everyday Canadians, someone who isn’t afraid to tackle tough economic realities head-on.
The Economic Implications of Tariffs
Economists warned of the potential devastation these tariffs could bring to Canada’s economy, which heavily relies on trade with the United States. Trudeau’s response was to commit over a billion dollars to enhance border security, a move seen by most as capitulation to Trump’s demands rather than strategic diplomacy. This decision was met with mixed reactions, with some seeing it as a necessary evil, while others criticized it as an unnecessary expenditure that played directly into Trump’s hands.
The Political Endgame
The political fallout was swift. Oppositions, both within and outside the Liberal Party, began calling for Trudeau’s resignation. The situation was worsened by the loss of key allies like Freeland, painting a picture of a government in shambles. The pressure for Trudeau to step down intensified, with political analysts speculating on whether he would be forced to call an early election or if he would be ousted through a confidence vote in parliament. The last two weeks have been filled with videos of Trudeau being chased through the streets of Ottawa by angry Canadian mobs shouting “Fuck you, fascist,” and the like.
Post-Script: An informal survey taken in Canada shows a stunning 60% Canadians supporting the idea of becoming the 51st state. Entrepreneur and Canadian national treasure Kevin O’Leary has expressed personal enthusiasm for this idea, and is scheduled to discuss the “joining of the two economies.” I suspect he is angling for the position of Governor of the State of Canadia. And I, dear reader, am here for all of it.
N.P.: “Stay On The Outside” – Whitey
What the hell happened to December? Seriously, what happened? One minute, I was shoving an uncarved pumpkin onto my front step and pretending it was a deliberate Halloween decoration. The next thing I know, it’s Christmas Eve, and the pumpkin is half-frozen, half-shriveled, looking like it’s experiencing the same existential crisis we all are this time of year. December didn’t happen-it sprinted past me like an illegal alien trying to get out of the US by January 20th.
And now here I am, no presents wrapped, no tree fully decorated (unless you count the pathetic attempt of a tinsel garland I draped across it like a lazy toga), and absolutely no clue where this month went. I know I’m not alone in this. December plays us all like amateurs every year. But this time, I have a solid excuse – or at least I’m calling it solid.
You see, dear reader, I’ve had my head so far buried in this book I’m trying to get into selling shape that time has become little more than a suggestion, like expiration dates on prescription meds. Each day blurs into the next – words, edits, caffeine, Benzedrine, absinthe, repeat. Somewhere along the way, I apparently forgot that there’s an entire world out there demanding responsible behaviors, like buying Christmas gifts or paying attention to dates on a calendar. I’m reminded one cannot go about freelancing through life like it’s an open-mic night. If you haven’t tried writing a book while the world insists on going about its business, I suggest that you don’t. It’s not that it’s hard (though it absolutely is), it’s that the sheer mental consumption of it warps everything else. Time ceases to9 flow like a gentle stream and starts spinning like a manic record on loop. “December,” you say? I barely knew her.
In fairness, it doesn’t help anything living in California at Christmastime. The whole rest of the world (but certainly anything north and east of here) gets four distinct seasons, three months each. There is never any question of what time of the year it is. Not so in California. Here, we only have two seasons, and if you want to get existentially technical about it, we have one season and one privation: things are either Hotter Than Hell, or they are Not. From Cinco de Mayo until Halloween, it is Hotter Than Hell. From Guy Fawkes Day until Cinco de Mayo, it is Not. Winter kicks in the fucking door when it arrives in the rest of the world. Here, we don’t even get a gentle tap on the shoulder. If Winter does show up here, he doesn’t want anybody to know about it.
I know this sounds like some kind of justification for procrastination (it is), but this book I’m writing? Again, it will have been worth it. And if I’m not forgiven for any holiday failings, I’ll just blame the pumpkin. It’s still sitting out there like a sad squash of shame, and honestly, it deserves it.
Merry Christmas, dear reader.
N.P.: “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” – Gary Hoey
Today, we celebrate the birth of the man, the myth, the musical juggernaut – Ludwig van Beethoven, born December 17, 1770 in Bonn. The OG of symphonic swagger would be turning 253 today, and frankly, the music world is still catching up to him. LVB has been an outsized inspiration for me. When I was 3, I used to occasionally come out of my room in the morning and announce that I was Beethoven that day, and made everybody call me Ludwig and stuff. I was a weird little kid. Anyway, to me, Beethoven has always been The Man.
The first song I learned to play on the piano was the Ode to Joy, which, if you don’t know, is the 4th movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony and shall forever remain the most divine noise to ever fall upon the ears of man. I followed that up by learning his Moonlight Sonata, which, while perfectly encapsulating that haunting, heartbreakingly beautiful “staring out a rainy window with unresolved feelings vibe.” Then, of course, there is Symphony No. 5, whose four opening notes can still make the most nonchalant music critic sit up straight.
Of course I loved (and still love) his entire body of work. But what I’ve really gotten from Beethoven was the attitude. Uncle Ludwig embodied Romanticism – this has nothing to do with being romantic and giving flowers and bad poetry to the object of your desire. No…this sort of Romanticism says that art is not for the kissing of your patron’s ass. Art is how mankind argues with fate and with God. If God throws a lightning bolt at you, grab it and chuck it right back at Him while shouting boasts and challenges to the heavens.
The man lived larger than his circumstances. Losing one’s hearing would have sent most composers spiraling into obscurity, but not Beethoven. He seemed to say, “Fine, I’ll write music so monumental it’ll shake the world without me even being able to hear them.” And then he did. By the time he premiered his Ninth Symphony – deaf as a brick – audiences were on their feet, absolutely losing it, while someone had to turn him around so he could even see their applause.
But Ludwig’s defiance wasn’t just with fate – it was with the entire music establishment. He flipped a massive middle-finger to decorum, shifting music from aristocratic background noise to something brimming with fire, fury, and liberation. His compositions weren’t polite; they were bold, raw, full of tension, and completely unapologetic.
For every rule he shattered, he paved the way for modern music to become an experience. Without the risks Beethoven took, half the artists you love today likely wouldn’t even exist. From movie scores to rock to jazz, his fingerprints are everywhere.
So on this day, were raise our whiskey to the eternal maestro, a man who turned his personal tragedy into global treasure. Cheers, Uncle Ludwig!
N.P.: “Beethoven” – Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Oooooooh shit, dearest reader…tectonic news on our War on Daylight Saving Time: Big Don said the thing and thus made it official! To fucking wit:
You have no idea the extent to which this whole idea fills my heart with abject glee. Actually, if you’ve endured the last several years of my biannual screeds railing against the obvious complete stupidity of pointlessly raping the clocks twice a year, sans either lube or logic, you probably know exactly how happy this makes me.
Daylight Saving Time, which has been a national embarrassment since the passage of the Uniform Time Act in 1966, is compelled for most of the year across the United States. Currently, Arizona and Hawaii are the only two states smart enough or with the testicular fortitude to tell the Fed to go fuck itself. Abolishing DST would require nationwide adoption of Standard Time year-round through congressional legislation and presidential approval, which will now, no doubt, happen.
Earlier this month, after having been championed by author Jayson Gallaway for decades, ending DST first gained traction within Trump’s circle when the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), a newly created agency led by two of the biggest brains in America, Elon Musk and Vivek Ramaswamy, floated the idea that had been on the minds of most advanced thinkers for quite some time. “It seems clear that people are fed up with changing their clocks,” Musk wrote on X in post echoing public sentiment. Ramaswamy chimed in, replying, “It’s wasteful and easily fixable.”
Despite overwhelming public support for scrapping the time change, there’s oddly still a strange divide over what should replace it. This should a no-brainer, but, let’s be honest: we’re just now getting around to ending it in 2025…there are a lot of people evidently sans brains still advocating for this nonsense. Obviously, the nation should stick to Standard Time year-around…it’s in the fucking name: Standard Time. Historical perspective: previously, this was just known as “Time.” The unnecessary and abhorrent modifier was added only to differentiate it from Bullshit Time, which, after several rather intense focus groups, was renamed Daylight Saving Time. There are people…actual tax-filing, voting people who allegedly think DSL should stay permanent. Standard Time, relegated to November to March, is known by superior intellects and health experts to match the body’s natural circadian rhythms, benefitting overall health and sleep. On the other hand, the moronic proponents of Daylight Saving Time favor longer evening daylight hours, apparently not understanding that you can exactly however have as many daylight hours you want if you just set your alarm clock an hour earlier and kindly leave the rest of us the fuck alone. These cretins evidently believe DSL boosts economic and recreational activities. They are just the sorts of people who would prioritize profit and fun over the general public health. Assholes.
Sadly, this debate isn’t new. Back in 2022, the Senate unanimously passed the Sunshine Protection Act, a bill introduced by Sen. Marco Rubio that quite wrongheadedly aimed to make DST permanent. Thankfully, the proposal stalled in the House and failed to advance further. Rubio reintroduced the legislation in 2023, but it remains stuck in committee, leaving the future of clock changes unresolved. Until now.
Even the news that this is an actual early focus of the incoming administration is more than enough reason for an Emergency Goat Dance, which has been rather hastily scheduled for this evening and night. But this will be child’s play compared to the bacchanalia that will erupt once the clock is permanently locked…that will be truly legendary stuff….could potentially be the biggest Goat Dance in 25 years. And I absolutely cannot wait.
I would be remiss not to mention the schadenfreude I am feeling these days associated with this and similar issues that have had me screaming into the pillow at night with frustration since I was a child. In case the dear reader was wondering, those similar issues have been:
There are some others, but those will likely come up later. For now, you can tell what all of the abovementioned have in common: they are all things that Americans used to not have to deal with because we were smarter then, but then the government, at various stages and through various methods, convinced a generation of Americans to go along with each one of these bullshitty ideas, which is all they had to do. Each subsequent generation would be born into a world with these things as a reality, and as the Powers That Be learned from slavery, those born into slavery have no reason to think there is any other kind of existence possible for them and will thus never rebel, or even question their lowly role. For generations, pathetically small-minded Americans apparently lacking imagination just unquestioningly accepted these things as part of their reality. This has led to the rather unpleasant condition in the United States with allegedly free-thinking Americans walking around saying slavish things like, “Which one is that…is that the one when we get an extra hour to sleep in? I like that one.” Or “I’m stoked! I paid $1000 less in income tax this year.” I haven’t even known where to start with these people, so I haven’t. All I’ve managed to do is keep myself from beating them all to death with hardbound copies of Plato’s “Allegory of the Fucking Cave” [sic], and that has been truly difficult.
You watch, dear reader…there will be protests. Wailing and gnashing of teeth from all the usual suspects. But hold fast, there is nothing the purple-haired hippies can do about the Return to Realism. #LockTheClock
N.P.: “Unholy” – Collide
Things That I Like This Week
You know, dear reader, the sweet, chaotic symphony never fails to deliver. Some days it’s the little things – like getting ludicrously overcaffeinated and figuring out how to seamlessly link two sections of your book. Other days, it’s big, bold strokes of insanity on the global and cultural canvas that make you sit back and go, “Yeah, that’s the kind of chaos I can toast to.” And then you bust out the desk whiskey and do exactly that. Today is one of those days.
N.P.: “Red Right Hand” – Null Device
California Suckin’
It’s been embarrassing to be a Californian for decades now, but our idiot Governor Newsom has really overachieved in the Trashing of the State in more recent years. Oh sure, we’ve all endured the jokes about avocado toast and kale colonics for years, but at least we could point to gorgeous weather or the innovation of Silicon Valley to save face. Now? Now we’re lucky if we can keep the lights on long enough to hear about Newsom’s latest colossal blunder. Honestly, I think at this point I’m convinced this dolt was sent to us as some sick kind of cosmic prank, or a cruel social experiment to see how much one state can endure before collectively packing up and heading to Texas.
From Surplus to Scandalous Deficit – Economic Whiplash
Two years. That’s all it took. Governor Hair Gel inherited a wallet so bloated with cash, it could’ve gone on a diet. A $97.5 billion surplus! A number so gaudy it makes Elon’s bank account look like spare change under the couch cushions. And what did Newsom do with this unprecedented financial windfall? Did he invest it wisely in infrastructure, education, or programs to improve the lives of Californias? No, he managed to turn that surplus into a jaw-dropping $44.9 billion deficit faster than you can say, “How the hell does that even happen?” It’s like giving your teenager your credit card for a quick run to Food Casket and finding out they “accidently” bought a fleet of purple Lamborghinis and a yacht named Ho Magnet or some such. How do you blow through $142 billion in the span of two years? With Newsom signing the checks, apparently, quite easily.
What’s worse is that Californians barely saw the benefit of the surplus while it lasted. Oh sure, he sent out those highly publicized stimulus checks so people could briefly afford to fight inflation at the gas pump – where prices soared significantly more than the rest of the country largely thanks to his policies. Meanwhile, homelessness rampaged unchecked, businesses fled the state like it was haunted, and Newsom continued to fuck up.
COVID-19 or an Episode of Black Mirror?
There’s mishandling a pandemic, and then there’s Governor Dipshit doing an epileptic interpretive dance of authoritarian overreach. The guy didn’t just lock down the state, he locked down logic, common sense, and dissent while he was at it. California became a dystopian punchline, enforcing some of the nation’s strictest COVID measures, trampling on individual rights, and decimating small businesses in one swell foop [sic]. If you were here for it, you saw children not allowed to attend school, while Newsom’s own kids were enrolled in private, in-person learning. Livelihoods were crushed as mom-and-pop diners shuttered forever, but French Laundry? That remained open just long enough for His Royal Lie-ness to attend his little dinner party with lobbyists sans mask. Apparently, the virus doesn’t spread if you’re eating foie gras with people who can cut six-figure campaign checks. And while hardworking Californians grappled with unemployment, mental health crises, and the hopelessness of indefinite lockdowns, Newsome strutted through press conferences like a man expecting applause for burning down the house while holding the matches. It wasn’t leadership – it was self-promotion in a tight suit, and Californians are still suffering the consequences.
Corruption, Much?
Speaking of consequences, have you seen the governor’s track record for ethics? Spoiler alert – there isn’t one. Personal corruption is Gavin Newsom’s side hustle, except instead of starting a discreet Etsy shop for knitted scarves, he’s busy funneling state cash into pet projects and deals that seem to “coincidently” benefit his donors. It’s a fine line between leadership and self-interest, and Newsom’s been pole-vaulting over it with wild abandon. My dear California reader will recall the $1 billion mask deal with a Chinese company just after implementing a mask mandate. And what about his persistent failure to manage the state’s EDD fraud scam? An estimated $20 billion in taxpayer cash lost to fraudsters while actual Californians waited in unemployment purgatory. Rockstar governance, truly.
But nothing screams audacity like the governor cozying up to special interest groups while spouting lofty lefty platitudes about equity and justice. You know who’s not feeling very “just” right now? Californians trying to make a living while getting fleeced at every turn.
Parent? Dissenter? Congratulations, You’re a Criminal
And then there’s the piece de resistance of Newsom’s leadership – California’s foray into Orwellian parenting laws. Under laws Newsom heartily supports, refusing to “affirm” your child’s gender can now get you charged with child abuse and your kids removed from your custody. This is not satire; this is actual California legislation. Forget t-ball signups or PTA meetings – the real question California parents ask today is, “How do we survive this Orwellian nightmare without losing our kids to the goddamn Gender Police.”
Newsom calls it progressive; the rest of us call it a terrifying and perverse shitting upon parental rights, which, in California, were already completely beshitted. Combine that with his love of virtue-signaling and his unapologetic, full-throated sprint toward wokeness, and you’ve got a recipe for societal decay nearly to the point of collapse masquerading poorly as progress.
From Golden State to Gluttonous Disaster
I’ve been here a long time. I was born here and have lived here a depressingly long time. It used to be amazing. California used to symbolize opportunity and innovation. Now it’s a cautionary tale, thanks in no small part to the human wrecking ball occupying the governor’s mansion (actually, scratch that…that venal douchebag just moved into an $8 mil mansion in goddamn Marin. Because he wanted his kids to go to better schools. Seriously, fuck this guy so much). Under Gavin Newsom, being from California has gone from being a pretty cool thing to embarrassing and infuriating. We’re paying for rent and health care for illegals, and this jackass is talking about fighting the coming mass deportation. So many businesses and long-time residents are leaving, Newsom’s now floating the idea of an exit tax…a massive fee to move out of the state, in order to pay for the lost tax revenue. This isn’t governance. It’s a Shakespearean farce, only without the redeeming quality of ending quickly.
Here’s wishing Newsom ill. I hope he has a lousy Christmas.
N.P.: “Everyday is Halloween” – Stabbing Westward