BANNON 2028

THE CANDIDACY THAT OOZED OUT OF A DIRTY MICROWAVE IN HELL

Steve Bannon wants to be president. Or at least he wants people to believe he’s thinking about it. That’s the takeaway from a Daily Mail report, regurgitated by The Independent, citing unnamed sources who claim Bannon is quietly plotting a 2028 run because JD Vance—Trump’s vice president—is, quote, “not tough enough.” Bannon has not confirmed any such plan.

Let’s pause and take in that sentence like a long inhale through a gas station urinal cake. Steve Bannon. President. The man who looks like he sleeps in an air fryer and brushes his teeth with chalk. A walking blood clot in a rumpled shirt. A sweat-glazed monument to everything bloated, belligerent, and half-decomposed about American politics. This man thinks the country might look at JD Vance and say, “Nah, we’d prefer the guy who smells like a racetrack porta-potty after chili night.”

This isn’t satire. It’s not a parody headline from The Onion. It’s real reporting, drawn from sources close enough to Bannon to witness his decision-making process—meaning they’ve seen him scream at a mug of vodka for not being patriotic enough.

Bannon, now 71, reportedly believes he made JD Vance during the Ohio Senate primaries. Molded him. Shaped him. Carved him from the greasy clay of MAGA mythology. And now he wants credit. He wants control. He wants the spotlight. He wants the whole damn meatball. Because to Bannon, politics isn’t about governance. It’s about dominance, humiliation, and rerouting all the country’s pain through the belly of a man who hasn’t blinked since 2019.

He’s not running a campaign. He’s testing the scent in the air like a feral beast in a hunting blind made of sweatshirts and discarded subpoenas. He’s pacing. He’s muttering. He’s wearing two button-down shirts—layered, one on top of the other—not because it’s cold, but because it helps trap the steam of his own bile. One shirt for the bourbon stains, one for the wiretap. (Metaphor, obviously — but tell me you can’t see it.)

Steve Bannon is not a choice. He’s a fungus blooming in the cracks of a forgotten system, feeding on rot, thriving in dampness, puffing spores into every corner of the discourse. His political ideology is mildew and vengeance. His vision for America is a bunker with no ventilation, no books, and no truth—just a continuous livestream of him growling about George Soros while chain-drinking whatever clear liquid he can reach.

And yet, he finished second in the February 2025 CPAC straw poll. Vance took 61%. Bannon pulled in 12%, which is 11% more than any man who looks like he’s molting in real time should ever get. But those 12% gave him just enough false confidence to start whispering to the press through mouthfuls of gravel.

And now he wants to build a campaign for the presidency? Out of what? Beef jerky? Hate mail? Expired ammo and old Breitbart headlines?

Steve Bannon 2028 is what happens when the sewage backs up through the shower drain and demands to be called “sir.” It’s not a platform—it’s a bacterial bloom. It’s trenchfoot in campaign form.

He has no charisma. He has no strategy. He has no impulse control. His campaign slogan might as well be “Bannon 2028: Because the Insurrection Didn’t Go Far Enough.” Or maybe just “Soaked in Rum and Ready to Lead.” Or “Vote for Me or the Bugs Win.”

The origin of this entire article is a single whisper—a scoop passed from some bloated insider to a Mail reporter who probably gagged while typing. The Independent picked it up, polished the vomit, and here we are: gagging together in unison, wondering how far a country can fall before it finally bursts into flames and saves itself the trouble.

There’s no confirmation. No plan. Just the slow, oozing threat of a man too delusional to stop and too grimy to fade away. Steve Bannon isn’t entering the race. He’s seeping into it, like a leak in the ceiling you pretend isn’t there until your bed is soaked and full of mold.

America needs new leadership as soon as possible. But it sure as hell doesn’t need a ghost wearing two shirts and reeking of despair.

Godspeed to us all. Bring a mop.

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