Meet Snarkvark: Born in the Land of Legal Weed and Broken Dreams, Raised on Sarcasm and IPA
I’m Snarkvark, Colorado’s most disgruntled native son, raised in the crisp mountain air and now drowning in traffic, overpriced tacos, and the collective whining of every tech bro who moved here from California. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Trevor. I grew up back when Colorado was still affordable, the Broncos didn’t make me cry in the shower every Sunday, and people thought “microdosing” was just something you did with ketchup at a cookout. But that Colorado? Long gone, folks. The one I live in now is a damn meme of DEI hires and governance-by-socialists gone stupid.
Let’s be real—this state used to be cool. Skiing on weekends, bonfires without wildfire evacuations, and trails that weren’t clogged with influencers doing yoga poses for their OnlyFans page. Now? We’re a living experiment in how many ways a government can set taxpayer money on fire. Denver’s downtown looks like Mad Max got a TJ Maxx sponsorship, the I-70 corridor is a year-round hellscape, and if I see one more ballot initiative that raises property taxes again while “reimagining policing” with a fucking drum circle, I’m going to scream.
I’ve had a front-row seat to watch the state I love become an over-regulated, under-delivering clusterfuck. Every politician here is either too high, too woke, or too clueless to actually run the joint. Meanwhile, housing prices are skyrocketing so fast you’d think every one-bedroom apartment comes with a winning Powerball ticket stapled to the lease. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. And don’t even get me started on the outdoor recreation scene. Half the ski resorts are now hedge-fund owned, and the other half are reserved for tourists wearing jeans on the slopes. Jeans, Karen. On. The. Fucking. Slopes.
Politics? A goddamn horror show. Democrats treat us like their personal beta test for every progressive California idea, and the Republicans couldn’t organize an elementary school bake sale, much less win an election. Boulder’s busy banning e-scooters and straws, meanwhile, the western slope has given up on exporting peaches and now just exports politicians with whom you can get to second base on a first date in a crowded theater. They guarantee that shit.
Everyone’s very concerned about “equity and inclusion,” but I’m still waiting for someone to figure out how to plow the goddamn streets in February. Public transit? Please. RTD runs with the speed and reliability of a used lawnmower. A very very very very very very (have I typed “very” enough yet to make my point?) very very very expensive used lawn mower. (Which contributes to greenhouse gas, you insensitive and uncaring prick. Don’t you care that my children get nosebleeds between their episodes of gender confusion?!) But at least RTD comes with a urine-scented vagrant.
But don’t get it twisted—this isn’t just a bitch fest. It’s a call to arms, or at least a reminder to vote for someone who isn’t a complete idiot. I’m here to roast the nonsense on all sides because, frankly, it’s the only thing keeping me from lighting my voter registration card on fire and moving to Wyoming. I’ve had it with the platitudes, the performative politics, and the endless meetings about “task forces.” How about we just fix some potholes? Or stop inviting every tech company on Earth to “disrupt” our state while simultaneously pricing out anyone who’s lived here longer than a Coachella wristband?
So yeah, I’m done being polite about it. Colorado is my home, and it’s turning into a flaming bag of dogshit left on the doorstep of common sense. The hippies, hipsters, hucksters, and hustlers had their chance—and they blew it. Now? Now it’s Snarkvark’s turn. I’m here to burn down the bullshit, make you laugh while doing it, and maybe—just maybe—remind a few people that politics isn’t about feelings. It’s about sound, balanced government that gets results. And right now, the only thing we’re winning is the award for Most Confused State on Planet Earth.
Let’s fix this shit, Colorado. Or at least let me make fun of it until this bumblefuck-attempts-at-governance-in-the-name-of-equity-and-social-justice ignited dumpster fire by which I warm my ass consumes everything in this state worth two side shits and a half a rotgut pint of craft beer (hipster juice, as I like to call it).
So, that’s me. Nice to meet you. Look around. Or don’t. I plainly don’t give a shit.
