Andy Beshear: The New White Hope Nobody Asked For

By Michael Kelman Portney

Gather ‘round, fellow citizens, and lend me your eyeballs—because the DNC has rolled out another beige slice of electoral Wonder Bread, and it’s going stale before it even hits the toaster.

You may have seen the whispers. The party apparatchiks, those clipboard-wielding centrist whisperers with Georgetown degrees and no soul, are floating the idea of Andy Beshear as the next Chosen One. Yes, that Andy Beshear—the Kentucky Governor with the charisma of a substitute gym teacher and the resume of a guy your mom hopes you grow up to be if you never make it out of the Midwest.

Here we go again.

First, it was Hillary. The smartest girl in class who everyone respected but no one really liked. Then Biden—America’s political grandpa, complete with bedtime stories and accidental war crimes. And now? Now we’re being asked to clap politely for Andy "Just Happy to Be Here" Beshear. The man is like a cup of warm milk: soothing, familiar, and entirely inappropriate for fighting fascism.

Let’s be real.
He looks great on paper. Governor of a red state. Beat Mitch McConnell’s spawn. Handled a few crises with empathy and grace. Cool. But looking good on paper is what landed us Al Gore, John Kerry, and Michael Dukakis—three guys who could bore the face off Mount Rushmore. The Democratic Party’s fetish for electability cosplay has us stuck in a Groundhog Day loop of dudes who test well with soccer moms and make Wall Street sleep soundly.

Beshear is all “Dad Energy” and “Unity Vibes”—which means he’s white, middle-aged, and almost physically allergic to raising his voice. He’s the kind of guy who signs every email “Best” and apologizes when you bump into him. When the house is on fire, Andy’s the guy calmly reading the manual on how to fill a bucket.

And yeah, I’ll say it: he’s a tad too white. Not just in skin tone, but in soul. The kind of whiteness that comes with weekend trips to Lowe’s and an undying love of oatmeal. Not “white” like punk rock rebellion or Appalachian rage—no, bank teller white. Indoor voice white. Aspiring to be on a corporate HR poster white.

He’s a tad too goofy, too. Watch him speak and you’ll see it. That wide-eyed sincerity that makes you think he might just break into a song from The Music Man. You can smell the woodshop class on this guy. He’s the kind of earnest that doesn’t win wars—it reads bedtime stories while the barbarians kick down the door.

And—deep breath—he’s a tad too untalented. Look, no hate. He’s not a monster. But this is not the moment for someone whose greatest political asset is “not offending anybody.” We’re on the brink of a constitutional collapse, and the DNC wants to field a guy who looks like he plays cornhole competitively. He’s fine. FINE. But you don’t beat Trump, DeSantis, or whatever reptilian clone the right dredges up next with “fine.” You beat them with fire. Rage. Charisma. Goddamn poetry and venom.

Beshear? He’s a guy who might “bridge divides,” sure—but he’ll build the bridge just in time to watch the other side blow it up with TNT and blame it on “woke cancel culture.”

The DNC doesn’t need another soft-focus candidate with a steady hand and a cowardly soul. They need a fighter. A flamethrower. Someone who makes people cry in church and fistfight in the streets. Not someone who makes you nod while quietly regretting your voter registration.

But here’s the real insult: they’re already lining up the machinery to cram him down our throats. The think pieces are warming in the oven. The “Why Andy Could Unite Us All” op-eds are in draft folders. The donor class is sniffing his khakis like bloodhounds. And soon, if you say one bad word about him, the same liberal elite who thought Kamala Harris was the second coming of Ella Baker will call you a “purity bro” or accuse you of being a secret Russian bot.

I’m not saying Andy Beshear is a bad guy. He’s probably the kind of man who sends thank-you notes and knows the names of his neighbor’s kids. But this ain’t Rotary Club politics anymore, sweetheart. It’s a knife fight in a meth lab, and the DNC is showing up with a tepid handshake.

So, to the strategists, consultants, and brand managers who keep mistaking pleasant mediocrity for electoral safety, I say this:

Stop picking candidates like you’re assembling a J.Crew catalog.

The country is burning, and you’re out here offering us vanilla pudding.

We don’t need another Hillary-Biden hybrid with a splash of Kentucky twang. We need a Molotov cocktail wrapped in the Bill of Rights.

But sure. Push Beshear. Watch him lose.

Then blame us for not clapping hard enough.