A legal challenge to Eric Swalwell’s candidacy for California governor ignited a surprisingly personal and disturbing conflict. After I filed a petition demanding his removal from the race, citing residency requirements, Swalwell responded not with a defense, but with a dismissive insult on social media – labeling me a “MAGA idiot.”
My petition centered on a simple, yet critical point: the California Constitution mandates five years of residency for gubernatorial candidates. Evidence suggested Swalwell didn’t meet this requirement, as he officially declared a Washington D.C. address as his primary residence on a Deed of Trust, while lacking a verifiable California address.
The situation became even more pointed when it was discovered Swalwell used his attorney’s address on his official candidate statement, signing under penalty of perjury. A straightforward clarification of his California residency would have sufficed, but Swalwell chose instead to resort to personal attacks, revealing a reluctance to address the core issue.
This reaction spurred a deeper investigation into Swalwell’s past, beginning with his college years at Campbell University in North Carolina. He attended from 1999 to 2001, studying Government and History and contributing to the student newspaper.
Digging through archived student publications, a deeply unsettling discovery emerged: a disturbing poem authored by Swalwell appeared in the 2001 edition of “The Lyricist,” the university’s literary magazine. Entitled “Hungover From Burgundy,” the poem is a graphic and troubling exploration of sex and violence.
The poem doesn’t simply depict intimacy; it blurs the line between passion and physical harm. Kissing quickly devolves into violent imagery, with descriptions of exploding veins and blood. Swalwell appears to equate pain with connection, eroticizing acts of aggression.
One particularly chilling line – “My anxious arm she bit— my scar is beautiful” – reveals a disturbing tendency to transform injury into a perverse symbol of desire. The poem focuses heavily on the speaker’s own discomfort, suggesting a self-centered view of relationships.
Throughout “Hungover From Burgundy,” women are presented not as individuals, but as objects – desirable only when unreal, exaggerated, or destructive. When they revert to a normal, human state, they lose their appeal, hinting at a profound dehumanization.
The poem’s unsettling nature isn’t rooted in explicit detail, but in the underlying worldview it reveals. It suggests a deeply troubled perspective on women, one that views them as tools for male experience rather than as fully realized human beings.
The poem also hints at a reliance on intoxication to facilitate encounters, adding another layer of concern. This disturbing pattern casts a new light on past events in Swalwell’s life, including his divorce and allegations of a relationship with a Chinese operative.
“Hungover From Burgundy” raises serious questions about Swalwell’s psychological fitness for public office. It’s not merely a youthful indiscretion, but a window into a deeply concerning mindset that should disqualify him from serving as governor – and perhaps even continuing in Congress.
