avin Newsom—self-proclaimed Planet-Saver Extraordinaire—has turned the Golden State into a punchline for policy paralysis. Step one: Drown refineries in a regulatory tsunami of cap-and-trade tolls, permitting purgatory, and low-carbon edicts so suffocating they make a noose feel breezy. Result? Valero's Benicia beast and Phillips 66's Wilmington wonder pack up and peace out, vaporizing 12% of the state's gas-making mojo. Prices? Skyrocketing past $4.50 a gallon, because nothing says "affordable living" like wallet whiplash.
But wait—there's salvation! Or, y'know, sarcasm. To plug the hole, Newsom's brain trust dusts off the Jones Act's dusty escape hatch: Ship fresh U.S. Gulf gasoline to the Bahamas (piña coladas not included), stash it in a sunny silo for that sweet "international trade" glow-up, then hoist it aboard creaky, foreign-flagged rust-buckets—vessels so vintage they're practically museum pieces. These seafaring fossils then chug 5,000 extra miles back to Long Beach, exhaling CO2 like a dragon with indigestion and tacking on 10-20 cents per gallon in "scenic route" surcharges.
The kicker? This green-gone-gaga gambit torches more emissions than it saves, all while Newsom high-fives UK wind barons abroad. It's peak performative piety: Banish local polluters to "fight climate change," only to summon a smoky armada that makes the Exxon Valdez look eco-friendly. Bravo, Gav—your master plan's got the planet warmer, wallets lighter, and irony levels off the charts. Next up: Solar-powered submarines? Stay tuned, suckers.