This spring, many Angelenos have reported a strange, wild wind blowing down through the brushy canyons and over the sunbaked asphalt plains and across the urine-soaked beach parking lots of Los Angeles. 

There is a whiff of something new wafting into your Tesla sun roof at red lights, and for once it isn’t the choking smell of weed or the belching exhaust from junkie-filled RVs idling in alleys.

It is hope. And its name is Spencer Pratt.

His momentum is real and it’s spectacular. What began as a crazy long-shot campaign after his own house burned down in Pacific Palisades (full disclosure: I grew up in Pacific Palisades) that even his friends (I know a lot of them) thought was just a pipe dream has turned into the first real challenge to the craven, truly evil idiocracy that’s driven this metropolis into the toilet over the last 30-odd years. 

Famous billionaires are reportedly behind him. Whispers that Sergey Brin himself loves Spencer Pratt. His own campaign ads are going viral. His fan-created AI videos are going viral. The beloved bakery at Vicente Foods in Brentwood (home of Conan O’Brien and Kamala Harris, although she just moved to an even fancier neighborhood in Malibu), is selling out every day of its custom Spencer Pratt for Mayor cookies. Unfunny Brentwood resident Jimmy Kimmel and his frantic, Trump-hating wife Molly have been trying to shame and shut down the (female run!) bakery, to no avail.

Spencer’s got the warm breeze at his back and the waves are breaking just right. He is virtually guaranteed to make the June 2 mayoral runoff along with execrable communista Karen Bass, which will lead to an epic showdown this November. The establishment Democrats are all panicking, which tells you how well she’s doing. The more hit pieces they drop, the more lame........

© The Spectator