Mark Ruffalo for President

The door creaks open and there he is—the Great Green Hope, the only man in the Zip Code with a pulse that hasn’t been flatlined by the terminal boredom of the DNC.

We are hurtling toward 2028 like a freight train with no brakes and a conductor hopped up on pharmaceutical-grade ego, and you’re asking me about a movie star?

Look, kid, pull up a chair and pour yourself something stiff, because we are neck-deep in a swamp of terminal mediocrity and the only thing with a pulse is currently wearing a tuxedo and a "Be Good" pin at the Golden Globes.

You want to talk about the DNC? That collection of calcified mummies and corporate ventriloquists? They’ve spent the last two years—ever since the 2024 collapse—wandering the halls of power like ghosts in a house they no longer own.

They are the "neoliberal" undead, captured by the billionaire class and paralyzed by their own tepid, bloodless caution. While the country is being dismantled by the "worst human being in the world"—Ruffalo's words, not mine—guys like Schumer and Jeffries are still trying to play bridge by the old rules.

They’re the "antithesis" of the fire we need. Ruffalo knows it. He’s been calling them out for their spinelessness, for their "corporate capture," and for their refusal to see the wreckage they’ve left behind.

And Gaza? Good God, the man has not shied away from the subject. While the rest of the Democratic establishment was busy whispering "concerns" into their gin and tonics, Ruffalo was out there leading a thousand-strong boycott of Israeli film institutions, shouting for an arms embargo, and weeping over the human cost.

He’s not some weekend warrior; he’s been the most consistent, jagged thorn in the side of the pro-war machine for two decades. He doesn't need a focus group to tell him that international law isn't a suggestion.

The establishment hates him. They fear him like a vampire fears the sunrise. Steven Cheung and the White House ghouls call him "the worst actor in the business," but that’s just the sound of the vultures realizing the meat is fighting back.

He’s looking at 2028 not because he wants the shiny desk, but because the "beige brigades" of ICE are roaming the streets like coyotes and the working class is being bled dry by the same billionaires who fund his own industry.

He’s an Avenger, a dreamer, a man with a moral compass that points true north even in a hurricane of lies.

It’s a long shot, a frantic gamble in a world gone mad. But when the DNC is a graveyard and the RNC is a fortress of doom, maybe the only sane thing left to do is back the guy who’s willing to burn down the old world to save the people in it.

It’s a strange, beautiful, terrifying thought, isn't it? The Hulk in the Oval Office. But by God, at least we’d know which side he’s on when the sky starts falling.

IN SOLIDARITY. 2028.