The following article, The Democrat Knife Fight We All Knew Was Coming, was first published on The Black Sphere.

Trouble in Leftist paradise? Of course, you gullible dreamers.

The Democrats are in complete disarray, like a clown convention where everyone’s allergic to the red noses. And now, the knives are out—among themselves. Remember the post-mortem after Harris’s epic flameout in November 2024? It was like unleashing a pack of therapy dogs on a steakhouse; suddenly, the truth serum kicked in, and they started admitting what we’ve all whispered for years: their party’s a hot mess of egos, flip-flops, and folksy word salads that could choke a thesaurus.

Team Biden didn’t hold back, spilling the tea on how they viewed Harris as little more than a diversity checkbox with a cackle. And Kamala? Oh, she didn’t waste a nanosecond before deciding that book royalties beat any lingering loyalty to the walking vegetable who elevated her. Her memoir, 107 Days: The Fight for America’s Soul (or whatever inspirational drivel they slapped on the cover), hit shelves in September 2025 like a lead balloon wrapped in regret. It’s part confessional, part excuse factory, and all finger-pointing at everyone but the mirror.

But Harris didn’t stop at roasting Joey Demento.

She dragged half her shortlist of VP wannabes through the mud, turning what should have been a graceful exit into a petty payback tour. Enter Pennsylvania’s golden boy, Democratic Gov. Josh Shapiro, who’s now channeling his inner WWE heel with a profanity-laced smackdown that has the DNC’s blue bloods blushing.

Back in August 2024, as the world watched Harris scramble to assemble her ticket after Biden’s inevitable bail-out, she auditioned Shapiro like he was applying for a role in a bad reboot of The West Wing. Spoiler: He didn’t get the part. She snubbed him for Minnesota’s folksy punching bag, Tim Walz—because nothing says “winning strategy” like pairing word-salad generator with the guy who thinks tampons in boys’ bathrooms is peak progressivism. Rumors swirled that Shapiro dodged the bullet on purpose, wisely sniffing out the electoral ass-whooping that Harris-Walz [Insert Next Putz Here] was barreling toward. Trump? He turned that ticket into a piñata at a MAGA birthday bash. Fair election? Please—Democrats haven’t seen one since Acorn was handing out “voter” coupons like candy.

Fast-forward to December 2025, and the feud erupts in a fresh hellscape courtesy of The Atlantic’s Tim Alberta.

In a sprawling profile titled “What Josh Shapiro Knows About Trump Voters”, Alberta corners Shapiro with excerpts from Harris’s book. Turns out, Kamala painted their VP chat as a cringefest where Josh allegedly hijacked the convo, fantasized about redecorating the Naval Observatory with Pennsylvania knick-knacks, and basically auditioned as co-president. She wrote he “mused that he would want to be in the room for every decision,” prompting her to snap, “A vice president is not a co-president.” Ouch. She even claimed he grilled her residence manager on bedroom counts and Smithsonian loaner art—like he was house-hunting for the apocalypse bunker. Harris wrapped it with her killer line: “Every day as president, I’ll have ninety-nine problems, and my VP can’t be one of them.” It’s the kind of shade that sells books but starts wars.

Shapiro? He didn’t just dispute it; he detonated. As Alberta read the passages aloud, the usually buttoned-up governor turned into a dockworker with a grudge.

“She wrote that in her book? That’s complete and utter bullshit,” he barked, his face flushing like he’d mainlined Red Bull and regret.

“I can tell you that her accounts are just blatant lies,” he added, before dropping the mic: “I mean, she’s trying to sell books and cover her ass.” He backpedaled a tad—”I shouldn’t say ‘cover her ass,’ that’s not appropriate”.

But the damage was done. This wasn’t scripted Beltway banter; it was raw, unfiltered Shapiro, admitting he’d lost respect for Harris way back in ’24, especially for her blind-eye routine on Biden’s sundowning. Sources close to him whispered to Alberta that the snub stung, but the lies? That’s what lit the fuse.

What triggered this Jersey Shore-level meltdown?

Who knows—maybe the ghost of overlooked ambition, or just the realization that Harris’s “nagging concern” about his ego was projection on steroids. After all, this is the woman who spent four years as the tie-breaking turtle in the Senate, chuckling through border crises and inflation Armageddon. But Shapiro’s not wrong to push back. In the book, she admits he was “poised, polished, and personable”—a “talented political athlete”—yet fretted he’d chafe at playing second fiddle. Translation: Josh is too alpha for Kamala’s fragile ego. And let’s be real: If he’d joined that ticket, Pennsylvania might’ve flipped anyway, but at least the debates would’ve had some actual zing instead of Walz mumbling about vegan hotdish.

Zoom out, and this spat is exhibit A in the Democrats’ leadership vacuum. They’ve got no bench deeper than a kiddie pool, and the few risers are already circling each other like hyenas on laughing gas. Shapiro’s testing the waters now, popping up on podcasts and profiles, hoping the Trump honeymoon phase blinds folks to his party’s corpse. But the coast? It’s about as clear as a polar bear in a snowstorm.

Enter Gavin Newsom, California’s boy wonder, who’s been making the rounds since his October 2025 coming-out party as a 2028 contender.

He’s pitching “California Dreamin’ 2.0” with all the sincerity of a used car salesman hawking lemon EVs. Traction? About as much as a Tesla on black ice. Walz is lurking too, peddling Midwestern mush, while whispers of Gretchen Whitmer and Pete Buttigieg add to the rogue’s gallery of also-rans.

The truth? Democrats are scattered for a damn good reason: Their “big tent” is more like a leaky pup tent in a hurricane, united solely on one quixotic quest—stop Trump. But that faction’s shrinking faster than Biden’s poll numbers in ’24, hemorrhaging independents who saw through the hysteria. And as the 2028 circus ramps up, expect more cage matches like Shapiro v. Harris. Books become broadsides, interviews turn into inquisitions, and alliances shatter like cheap wine glasses at a rage room.

Republicans? Just sit back with the popcorn. Stay vigilant, sure—vet those hires like Laura Loomer on a mission—but the real entertainment’s internal.

Whether Democrats double down on their woke fever dreams (defund the police, anyone?) or desperately pivot to Trump-lite (walls? Tariffs? Whoops, we meant “strong borders with a side of empathy”), they’ll flop harder than Harris’s coconut-tree monologue. Hell, as lethal as Trump is at exposing their fraud, the Dems will do more self-inflicted damage than he ever could. It’s poetic justice: The party of unity, eating itself alive. Pass the butter— this popcorn’s getting salty.

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[H/T The Black Sphere]