Morning Joe Can Fuck All the Way Off.

Nobody Gives a Shit About What Joe Scarborough "Thinks".

Who the fuck do you think you are, Joe Scarborough??

You sir, are a human sleep aid in a tie, a beige noise machine in loafers, a man so painfully mediocre you could be marketed as the official cologne of erectile dysfunction—swaggering onto set like anybody gives a flying fuck about your “strategic advice”? You’re not a kingmaker, you’re not a strategist, you’re not even a credible pundit anymore. You’re a human screensaver with good lighting. You’re the filler they cut to when the chyron operator goes to take a piss.

You spent years howling that Trump was an existential threat, puffing yourself up like Captain Resistance on live TV, milking every tweet for outrage like a kindergartner squeezing the last drops from an empty Capri Sun. Then, when the election fog rolled in, you folded faster than a Dollar Store lawn chair and made your sad little pilgrimage to Mar-a-Lago. The same guy you called Mussolini in a golf cart? You flew down to kiss his ring. Bent knee, head down, lips puckered like a man auditioning for the world’s least sexy toothpaste ad. You weren’t Resistance Daddy, Joe — you were Trump’s roadkill fluffer.

And now you’re perched on your studio throne, face locked in that pompous grimace, wagging your finger at Gavin Newsom like you’re the wizened sensei of Democratic strategy? Please. You couldn’t cut it in Congress, so you scurried off to cable, where you’ve been larping as a statesman ever since. Watching you lecture anyone on politics is like watching a mall Santa lecture Tom Ford on tailoring. And don’t think we don’t notice the Botox sheen and the Just For Men comb-over—you’re not some rebel outsider, Joe, you’re a walking PSA for clinging too hard to the illusion of youth.

And the nerve of you, lecturing Democrats on “tone.” Tone! From you—a man whose delivery is less “commanding anchor,” and more “divorced dad trying to explain TikTok to the dog.” You don’t have gravitas, Joe—you have the permanent vibe of a regional mattress salesman trying to close out Labor Day Weekend.

Meanwhile, Gavin Newsom is out here doing the one thing Democrats must do: beating Republicans at their own blood-sport circus while actually governing at the same time. He’s hammering real policy—drafting California’s “Election Rigging Response Act,” a legal bear trap for Texas Republicans who think democracy is an all-you-can-eat buffet—and simultaneously humiliating Trump and the GOP with parody so sharp it makes Fox anchors bleed from the gums. That’s called multitasking, Joe. You wouldn’t know it if it came with cue cards and an overworked intern to hold your fucking hand.

And let’s say the thing you’re too insecure to admit: Gavin Newsom is sexy as hell. The man walks into a room with that smirk, the teeth, the hair, the California swagger — and suddenly fascism doesn’t just look evil, it looks embarrassing. He’s the bastard who can sign a bill, roast Trump in all-caps, and still look like he just stepped off the set of Ocean’s Eleven. That’s not optics, that’s jet fuel. That’s charisma. That’s the kind of presence that makes people want to stand up and fight. Meanwhile, Joe, you’re droning on about “affordability” like a substitute teacher who smells like cough drops and broken dreams. You think you’re gravely serious; you’re really just gravely boring — the human equivalent of an expired AAA battery rolling around in a junk drawer.

And your Sunday school lecture about how “Democrats should talk about groceries”? Jesus Christ. Every Democrat already does that, Joe. Kamala Harris, Sherrod Brown, Elizabeth Warren—they screamed it from the rooftops until their vocal cords snapped. You know what happened next? You and your little media pals chased the next flaming bag of Trump bullshit instead. You built the circus, you booked the clown, you piped in the carnival music—and then you scolded Democrats for not “focusing on the issues.” That’s not strategy. That’s malpractice dressed up as punditry.

Let’s not mince words: you don’t hate what Newsom is doing because he’s ineffective. You hate what he’s doing because he’s being effective without you. He’s rewriting the playbook and proving Democrats don’t need the approval of fossils like you who still think the key to winning is whispering in polite tones while the other side sets the building on fire. You’re jealous. You’re irrelevant. You’re a washed-up cover band playing Creed at a dive bar. You’re not a rock star. You’re karaoke with hair plugs. At this point, you’re little more than whiskey dick with a morning show.

And as for your “Trump isn’t even on the ballot” line? Are you fucking kidding me? Trump isn’t just on the ballot, Joe, he is the ballot. His greasy, not-so-fun-sized, teeny tiny fingerprints are smeared all over it—on the gerrymanders, the abortion bans, the tariffs, the bought-and-paid-for judges, the fascist cosplay, the Medicaid cuts, the rotting culture-war sewage. Saying Trump isn’t on the ballot is like saying cancer isn’t in the body because the tumor’s in the liver instead of the lungs. It’s everywhere, you whiny, insufferable jackass.

Telling Democrats not to talk about Trump is like telling Floridians to shut up about hurricanes because the eye isn’t overhead while the goddamn roof is ripping off and the bathtub is floating down the street. The water isn’t just in the living room, Joe—it’s up to the fucking ceiling, the goldfish are swimming past your flat-screen, and you’re in the corner with a Swiffer, muttering about “moisture.” You’re not just wrong, you’re pathetic.

And then—because you apparently don’t think you’re embarrassing enough—you compared Donald Trump to Muhammad Ali. Are you out of your fucking mind? Ali was the Greatest. He fought for dignity, for justice, for principle. He sacrificed his career to stand against war. Trump? Trump faked bone spurs to dodge service and cheats at fucking golf. Comparing the two is like comparing filet mignon to a microwaved Slim Jim. Ali floated like a butterfly, stung like a bee. Trump waddles like a diabetic theme park duck and whines like a spoiled toddler in the Target toy aisle.

Remember when you called that shit out? Now, you’re so far up Trump’s ass you could give us a detailed Yelp review of what he had for damn breakfast.

You keep branding yourself as the “voice of reason,” but let’s be real: you’re the voice of “middle-aged dad band that never got signed.” You’re not a sage, you’re not a fighter—you’re a shrug emoji in cake makeup.

Here’s the truth: Newsom is the one doing what needs to be done. He’s dunking on fascists, clowning the GOP, and making politics entertaining and substantive again. He’s sharp, he’s ruthless, he’s effective, and—let’s be honest—he’s hot.

Meanwhile, you’re the guy in the hotel cuck chair, upset your wife is orgasming too loud.

So, here’s your legacy, Joe: you’re the hall monitor who clutched the rulebook while the bullies spray-painted dicks on the gym wall. You’re the fossilized talking head who told the firefighters to “keep it down” while the house was burning. You’re not serious, you’re aggressively dull — like an elevator chime stuck on repeat, with all the charisma of a damp Post-it note.

Donald Trump is raiding the homes of his political enemies like some banana-republic landlord with a grudge. He’s got the National Guard and Marines prowling our streets, masked ICE goons kidnapping food delivery drivers and shipping them off to foreign gulags. He’s taking bribes hand over fist in the Oval fucking Office, like it’s a cut-rate casino cage. And through it all, he still refuses to release the Epstein files—files we now know have his name plastered all over them, files he once campaigned on unveiling. And you want to talk about what Gavin Newsom is doing wrong?

Fuck that and fuck you.

Gavin Newsom is Rowdy Roddy Piper off the top rope with a chair. He’s flashy, he’s savage, he’s effective, and yeah—he looks like a movie star while elbowing fascists in the face. And you? You’re flat on your back, whining about sportsmanship, your earpiece tangled, your makeup sliding south, your legacy folded like a Chipotle burrito nobody ordered. You’re not the ref, you’re not the fighter—you’re the guy history forgets was even in the arena. A khaki-colored dial tone who once upon a time mistook himself for a voice.

So just fucking stop already. Cuz the rest of us got shit to do.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS MATTER. - JPC

And with that, today’s song. It’s dedicated to you Joe. You’re welcome.

I love you guys!

Stay sassy, stay snarky, and fuck Morning Joe.

💙 Jo