As Trump narrows down his choices for Vice President, one thing to keep in mind is that current Arkansas Governor Sarah Sanders was a terrific press secretary for the Trump Administration and that she is on the same waveIength as former President Trump when it comes to mocking enemies, as she managed to hilariously troll California Governor Gavin Newsom over the summer, mocking the state of his state after he attempted to bash red states.
The incident, which occurred over the summer of 2023, came after Greasy Gavin released a video in which he claimed that red states are worse than blue states, primariIy pointing to cri me statistics while ignoring that the high crime to which he is referring occurs in blue cities, not the red countryside.
Attacking Gov. Abbott of Texas, for example, Gavin claimed that Abbott has “One of the worst cri me and mur der rates in America and one of the worst mental health records of any governor in America? I’m not so convinced about the merits of his leadership.” Continuing, Newsom said, “Eight of the top 10 mur der states are Republican states.
Seven of the top 10 dependent states … are red states. He then added, “The life expectancy in the South, and they’re not expanding Medicaid and prenataI care and providing child care? It’s jaw-dropping.”
He then accused Republicans of not caring about “life” and “banning books,” saying, “Infant mortaIity? You care about life, and you look at life expectancy? You care about life, and you’re getting kids that are gunned down by weapons of w ar? Spare me. All in the name of freedom, as you’re banning books?” ConcIuding the video, Newsom said, “With all due respect, we should not be on the defensive as the Democratic Party. The Republican Party should be on their heels, not us,”
Responding to Governor Newsom’s claims, Gov. Sanders released a video of her own in which she ripped into how Newsom has managed California and trolled him with some humor in the video, doing a great job of dismantling his claim that California is better run than red states.
The video Sanders posted to X kicked off with Newsom saying, “We should not be on the defense as a Democratic Party. The Republican Party should be on their heels.” It then pans to a clip of Gov.
Sanders strutting in heels while a report about half a million people fleeing California over the past two years alone dominates the screen. Arkansas was one of the top five states to which people moved.
The clip, just 27 seconds but full of fun at Greasy Gavin’s expense, then cuts to information about how Gov. Sanders managed to lower the unempIoyment rate in Arkansas, slash taxes in the state, and raise salaries for public teachers in the state, all while “in heels.”
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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