Eric Swalwell has dropped out

His campaign is dead. So is his reputation.

Over.

So, over the past several weeks, scores of Californians have been begging for some of the Democratic gubernatorial candidates to drop out of the race and clear up the field.

Well, with a nod to Oscar Wilde, we have been damned to get what we wish for …

Eric Swalwell, the presumed frontrunner, is done. Over. Gone. Kaput. Eliot Spitzered. A few minutes ago he officially announced the “suspension” of his run, which is not-so-secret code for, “This shit has swallowed me up, and I’m over.”

He’s over.

My thoughts? I have a few …

First, it continues to dazzle me how, since the Feb. 4, 1789 election of George Washington, this nation has never had a woman president. Not one. Ever. And I note this because, well, men fucking suck. We just do. We rape and harass and are far too often guided by our dicks, not our brains. It’s actually breathtaking in its predictability. Seriously, how often do you hear of women doing this garbage to men? It’s exhausting.

Second, along those lines—I’m glad Swalwell is toast. Truly, I am. But I also have to ask, why is Donald Trump still a thing? Epstein’s buddy. Paid off the porn star. Accused by roughly two dozen women of sexual assault. Forking over $83 million to E. Jean Carroll. Brags about grabbing women by the pussies. Bragged about going back stage to see young women changing during beauty pageants. Cheats on wife 1 with wife 2, wife 2 with wife 3. Why is everyone held accountable—except this piece of shit?

Third, if I had to name the political winner from today, it’d be Matt Mahan, the San Jose mayor and a dude who puts the over in overzealous. Mahan’s campaign had been on the quick sink, and he clearly knew it. So, from jump, he started loudly hooting and hollaring about Swalwell—desperate to have him drop; desperate to take the mantle of young-bro-you’ve-sorta-kinda-heard-of.

It’s weird, politics. Upsetting, too. Katie Porter may well be a smidge hard to love, but she’s (for my money) the best candidate in the race. Yet people are so hard on women; so eager to find dents in the armor. Hence, I would not be shocked if, with Swalwell’s demise, you see Mahan surge past Katie and into a two-guy sprint with Tom $teyer … I mean, Steyer.

Fourth, I’ve recently been asked to consider entering my local city council race—and I’m a hard no. I’ve just had far too many uncomfortable Tweets (nothing sexual or racist, but a lot of hard-core uber-liberal positions) and clumsy engagements with sports and Tupac figures who hate me and would go out of their ways to savage my rep. I know it’d all be dug up, twisted, used against me—and I don’t want that to happen to my family.

Now imagine being Eric Swalwell. You know what you’ve (allegedly) done. You know what’s out there. You know the knives held above your head. And yet, for some ungodly reason, you still decide to run. Is it ego? Sure. Money? Perhaps. Power? No doubt. But you enter, you go for it, you consider yourself untouchable and the next crown prince of California.

And now, it’s over.

Now, you couldn’t run for city dog catcher.

Now, you slink off into the sunset, a B-side on the John Edwards 45.

Lord, politics suck.