So I’m running for governor. Like, of California. And if you don’t vote for me, you’re a racist. See how you like that following you around the rest of your life.
Since I was a little boy, long before freeways were invented, it’s been my dream to rid my fellow citizens of the Diamond Lane. Talk about an ongoing live-nude video of monkey-poop-for-brains bureaucrats run amuck. Sure makes sense to tie up 25% of the traffic lanes during rush hour so some hippy in a rusty 1964 Volvo with “Al Gore President for Life!” bumper stickers can drive at 38 mph with 74 miles of honking traffic behind him.
No more Diamond Lanes. No more Lois Lanes, either. I always found the various incarnations of Lois rather yangy. If ever a room needed wallpaper removed, just put Lois in the middle with hands on hips and let the scoldings begin.
I’ll wait until my second year in Sacramento to hunt down the perp who invented the Diamond Lane and have him shot. Or at least make him drive behind that hippy guy in the Volvo for the rest of his sorry life.
If elected governor — and I will because if I’m not, that means you guys are a bunch of homophobes — next thing? I’ll create the California State Jackass Preserve. Some of you are thinking: “Oh! How sweet! A sanctuary for our indigenous wild donkeys to graze and run, run, run and be free…”
No. I was thinking more along the lines of some unused California hell hole (Palmdale?) on the way to Las Vegas surrounded by a moat brimming with man-eating monitor lizards to deter escape by the buttheads.
Not the nice Croatian Butthead family in Canyon Country, but the usual, loud, angry, screaming, faces-distorted, forever imaginary-victimized, dressing up in the latest HBO Special period-piece costumes whining that somebody should be chewing their food for them. Or men should explore the exciting world of lactation.
Throw upon the harsh Gov. Boston Jackass Preserve tennis shoe store looters, gang bangers, certain letters-to-the-editor wet-blanket Crabby Appletons, a healthy dollop of teachers’ union reps and 80% of The William S. Hart Union High (sans Joe Messina) School District board.
Most of you are obviously excited about me putting the “Golden” proudly before “State,” but, have reservations.
“But Governor John-Sir/Your Holiness,” you ask. “What about all our annoying checks and balances, the foundation of both constipation and democracy? You can’t just round up millions of citizens, nether-regions rash-annoying as they may be, without due process and throw them in the pokey as if we were the federal government.”
“Sez — who?” I say.
Were all you voters sleeping during our state-mandated COVID lockdowns? There’s Precedent and I don’t mean the denture cream. A problem needs solving? I just smile, snap my fingers, spin thrice, click the heels of my size-14 ruby red cowboy boots, and, voila! Martial Law! Scream: “The sky is falling!!” and declare an emergency health care crisis. Earth is wobbling out of orbit.
I. Am. Reluctantly. Forced. To. Act.
For the good of you dumbbell mouth-breathing voters who elected county DA, George Gascón, of course.
As governor, I shall work tirelessly for expanded VIDers (Voter ID Requirements). I’ll create the Voter Youth Corps. Door-to-door they’ll go to ask: “Did you vote for Joe Biden?” Only, they’ll yell it like Tom Cruise in “A Few Good Men” when he screamed at Jack Nicholson: “DID YOU VOTE FOR JOE BIDEN!! DID YOU VOTE FOR JOE BIDEN!!!!!!!!!”
Most liberals will break down, as they are genetically wont, and proudly yell back: “YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT I DID!!” That’s when we zap them with a cattle prod, set on “lightly broasted,” paint their feet purple and cart them off to The Enlightened Governor Boston California State Jackass Preserve & Nuclear Waste Dump where they can ruminate on their shortcomings, or, o dream of special dreams, pass out from exposure.
As governor, I shall lower the state income tax to a floating scale of .03333% to .03334%. We’ll make up the revenue shortfall by annexing Nevada, home of Las Vegas and Area 51, where all that outer space illegal alien gold and baby formula is stored.
New law? All TV news programs be conducted in Tataviam, Santa Clarita’s ancient and extinct local Indian language, which, I’m told, was a series of grunts and tongue-clickings that even the Ta-tavs didn’t understand.
I’ll reestablish the California Rangers, that 19th-century semi-vigilante group of pistol-whippers that cleansed crime by essentially rounding up every undesirable and giving them a metaphorical melvin.
(RELUCTANT NOTE FROM SIGNAL LEGAL DEPT.: A “melvin” is where you grab someone’s underwear from behind and violently yank it up into the ionosphere or until the victim hits the unreachable and mournful key of C-ruptured flat.)
The New Rangers will dress like the Lone Ranger and drive around in white Suburbans with the bureau motto proudly on the front doors: “Bludgeoning for a Better Tomorrow.”
The gas tax? Look forward to it being inverted. After you fill up your tank, you push a button and get 93% (the current California gas tax) of your purchase refunded.
Elect me, John Boston, as California’s next governor. Free Lotto tickets. Actual sweet, kind, charming children’s stories read to kindergartners instead of “Debbie Does Gay Dallas” porn bondage films. More Westerns on Netflix. A limit of three Facebook snapshots per month of what you ate for lunch. No required sexual harassment seminars — either pro or con — for companies with more than one employee. Statewide, the legal changing of all Human Resources departments to the more accurate: “Spying.” A new, can-do California state motto: “It’s Nice To Be Important, But It’s More Important To Be Nice!”
And, of course, some things just cannot be changed. The second day of the week in our fresh, new, saucy California? Reverently, it shall remain — Taco Tuesday…
May I count on your vote?
John Boston is Earth’s most prolific satirists. Visit his johnbostonbooks.com and buy a great book or two…