Entrepreneur Bethenny Frankel has over 7 million followers across her social media channels and explains why Los Angeles resents need to vote for Spencer Pratt
“He's been honest. He's gonna get sh*t done. And he's a true Angeleno — I wouldn't bet against him. I'm gonna bet for him. And I would help him. I like him — He's campaigning on f*cking making a difference, doing something, because LA is a sh*t show and a shell of its former self.
LA used to be interesting and cool. People got excited to go there and live there. Now people want to get the f*ck out of there and kind of dread going there. LA is not it anymore”
This is one thing I think people not from Los Angeles have a really hard time understanding. People really don’t get how bad Los Angeles has gotten
Believe me when I tell you
- The infrastructure is falling alert, sidewalks and buildings
- Homeless tens as far as the eyes can see EVERYWHERE
- Street fires are everywhere from the homeless
- The streets smell so urine soaked you can’t even breathe. It makes you gag
- Homeless drug zombies attack people, they’re always getting naked and doing drugs right out in the open
- Graffiti is EVERYWHERE, you don’t understand how bad it is until you see it. It’s worse then Mexico
- Plywood structures are everywhere
- It’s so unsanitary 7 medieval diseases are making a comeback in downtown LA
It’s literally like a zombie apocalypse happened and no help ever came
@JustineBateman@latimes After 37 years, I left LA. Broke my heart, but the city is spiraling, mismanaged, and unsafe. My son was chased by a sword-wielding homeless drug addict. Our car was broken into in front of our home. A trip to the hardware store 3.7 miles takes 40 minutes. This is NOT normal.
@FOXLA I no longer live in LA due to crime/traffic/graffiti/homeless encampments/trash & total nonsensical political decisions. I didn't feel safe or that the struggle was worth the rewards. Not a fan of RealityTV, but like Pratt's passion. LA deserves better than status quo. #rebuildLA
God loves turning messes into messengers. The disciples weren’t stained-glass saints—they were real people changed by the touch of the Master’s hand. I use this guitar to illustrate that point.
I was in Bible college the week before 9/11.
Testimony service. Folding chairs. Fluorescent lights. Mandatory attendance.
Everyone expected the usual: clean stories, safe sins, spiritual résumés.
Then a tattooed giant walked to the front with his wife.
Former heroin addict. Former bouncer.
She’d worked the streets. Met him through her pimp.
Both of them gripping Bibles like flotation devices.
They sang. Badly.
Then he preached for five minutes.
No polish. No structure. No seminary cadence.
The hermeneutics professor winced.
The English teacher checked the clock.
But the altar filled.
Heaven moved while the educated missed it.
That moment never left me.
Because it exposed something most Christians don’t want to admit:
God does His best work in people who are still a mess.
That’s why Jelly Roll scares the industry.
Pills. Prison. Years burned down.
Then he grabbed the Grammy mic and said the one name you’re not supposed to say out loud if you want to keep a career.
“I love you, Lord.”
The crowd cheered.
The suits froze.
They always do.
Because God isn’t finished with him yet.
And unfinished people are dangerous.
Moses wasn’t Moses overnight.
He saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew. Rage took over.
Looked left. Looked right. No witnesses.
So he killed him.
Buried the body in the sand.
Forty years later he’s still running when the bush burns. Still seeing blood on his hands.
“Who am I?” he asks.
God sends him anyway.
Not from murderer to hero.
From murderer to man still being worked on.
Paul didn’t become Paul overnight either.
Stephen preached. Rocks flew. Skulls cracked.
Coats piled at Saul’s feet while he approved.
Years later, after writing half your New Testament, he’s still begging God about a thorn.
God doesn’t say, “You’re finished.”
He says, “My grace is sufficient.”
Your Bible reeks of in-progress redemption.
Exodus doesn’t hide the murder.
Acts doesn’t hide the coats.
KJV. No polish. No PR team.
That tattooed couple went home after chapel.
Monday came. Cravings stayed. Memories stayed.
God stayed.
Jelly Roll will wake up tomorrow with the same demons and the same industry pressure to shut up.
God will still be working.
You’re not disqualified.
You’re under construction.
Same clay. Same Potter. Same wheel.
Build anyway. Fall anyway. Get up anyway.
130 schools said no.
He led the losingest program in college football history to a national championship anyway.
Fernando Mendoza was a 2-star recruit from Miami.
He tried to walk on at his hometown school. They passed.
So did FIU.
So did FAU.
So did everyone else.
At 17, he was sitting in his bedroom, crying over a silent recruiting inbox—after driving to 18 camps with his dad and sending highlights to more than 100 programs.
Not one FBS offer.
His only option? Yale. No scholarship. No NFL path.
Everyone told him to be “realistic.”
“Know your place.”
“Be grateful.”
He didn’t listen.
Because Mendoza understood something most people miss:
The worst outcome isn’t failing.
It’s never getting the chance to try.
Two weeks before signing day in 2022, his phone rang.
Cal needed a body. One offer. Out of 134 schools.
He took it.
He arrived as the third-string quarterback.
Spent a year on the scout team.
Lost his first four starts.
Got sacked 41 times behind a broken offensive line.
Still got up. Every time.
Then Cal brought in a transfer instead of building around him.
So Mendoza left the only school that had ever said yes.
He transferred to Indiana—the losingest program in college football history.
People laughed.
“Career suicide.”
“Graveyard program.”
“Nobody wins there.”
One coach told him something different:
“I’m going to make you the best Fernando Mendoza possible.”
That was enough.
Mendoza wasn’t just playing for football.
His mother has battled multiple sclerosis for 18 years.
Before every snap, he thought of her.
“My mother is my why.”
Indiana went 16–0.
Beat six Top-10 teams.
Won their first Big Ten title since 1945.
Mendoza threw 41 touchdowns.
Won the Heisman—first in school history.
First Cuban-American to ever do it.
Then came the title game.
Miami. Near his hometown.
Fourth-and-4. Season on the line.
Quarterback draw.
The kid 134 schools rejected spun through defenders and dove into the end zone.
Game over.
Indiana—national champions.
The losingest program became the best team in America.
All because a 17-year-old refused to believe “no” was the end.
Rankings don’t decide your ceiling.
Gatekeepers don’t write your ending.
Being overlooked isn’t a verdict—it’s a starting point.
Sometimes all you need is one shot…
and the courage to bet on yourself when nobody else will.
Don’t quit.
Credit: Barclay Mullins