If Florida Politics already feels dipped in crazy, buckle up. Every 16 years or so, it’s as if a full moon rises over the Sunshine State and everyone collectively decides gravity is optional.

Think back to 1994, when Newt Gingrich’s Contract With America rewired Washington and Florida followed suit. A young Jeb Bush emerged from a wide-open seven-way GOP primary to take on Lawton Chiles, kicking off a generational political realignment. Or fast-forward to 2010, when Rick Scott parachuted into politics seemingly out of nowhere, Marco Rubio toppled a sitting Governor in a three-way U.S. Senate race, and the Tea Party turned insurgency into infrastructure.

Now, enter 2026, which is already flashing the same warning lights. Term limits are colliding with ambition, institutional guardrails are wobbling, and long-simmering power struggles are finally coming to a boil. The familiar names are still here, but the rules they once played by are not.

Which brings us to the inevitable pileup.

Here are a dozen Florida political car wrecks you won’t be able to avoid in 2026.

No. 1: A not-so-lame-duck Ron DeSantis

If anyone is expecting DeSantis to quietly wind down the clock, they haven’t been paying attention. The Governor is likely to exercise his authority right up until 11:59 p.m. on his final day, and there’s a non-zero chance of multiple Special Sessions in the months leading up to his exit.

But unlike his predecessor Scott, whose final hours were marked by a blitz of consequential judicial appointments designed to lock in long-term influence, DeSantis’ endgame figures to be less traditional — and far more idiosyncratic.

Case in point: the appointment of Urban Meyer to the Board of Trustees at New College of Florida. It’s high-profile, polarizing, and guaranteed to keep critics and allies arguing long after the term expires.

The Governor has always been far more defiant than deferential. All of which is to say: if you’re angling for a late-stage DeSantis appointment, polishing your résumé may matter less than your footwork on a sports bar dance floor.

No. 2: @RonDeSantis

Like too many men of his generation, @RonDeSantis lives way too online. Having followed DeSantis since well before his first run for Congress, it feels fair to put him on the couch for a moment. He emerged from the isolation of the pandemic and young fatherhood into a personal world with few genuine confidants — and an army of digital acolytes eager to amplify every thought.

DeSantis isn’t Donald Trump, but he is increasingly governing via social media. Policy declarations land on X alongside baseball musings and constitutional soliloquies, all delivered with the confidence of someone convinced the feed is the forum.

His fixation on the evils of artificial intelligence, in particular, reads less like a niche concern and more like early positioning as a possible 2028 foil to JD Vance, pitting Florida’s most affectless culture warrior against Silicon Valley’s favorite venture-backed tribune in a race to see who can sound more alarmed while offering less humanity.

No. 3: The property tax debate

Were it not so dangerously revolutionary, the idea of dramatically scaling back — or outright eliminating — property taxes in a state without an income tax would be the most ridiculous policy debate in modern Florida history.

As multiple analyses have made clear, property taxes are not some optional nuisance; they are load bearing. Strip them away and the ability of cities and counties to provide basic services collapses.

Still, DeSantis and many of his allies are determined to get something on the ballot. The push increasingly resembles a Florida-flavored version of California’s infamous Proposition 13 — a voter-friendly promise that capped property taxes, froze assessments, and permanently kneecapped local government capacity. The aftermath there was not relief but retrenchment.

Even if the idea had merit (and that’s a generous assumption) there is no reasonable way to upend the architecture of Florida government through a single ballot initiative. But that’s precisely what DeSantis wants. Before that happens, though, the Legislature will have its say. And when it inevitably refuses to give him exactly what he’s asking for — he’s particularly incensed by the House’s hodgepodge approach to the debate — the real fight begins.

What follows would pit the full DeSantis political machine against almost every county and city government in Florida. All that’s at stake is the very nature of government.

No. 4: The DeSantis-Uthmeier war on weed

As they demonstrated in 2024, DeSantis and James Uthmeier really, truly hate the sticky icky.

Last time around, the Governor and his then-Chief of Staff went to extraordinary lengths to stop a marijuana legalization amendment, including diverting millions of dollars meant to support child welfare and health care into a political effort designed to kill it.

The details of the Hope Florida scandal are well documented. The takeaway is simpler: no line was too close to cross if the goal was defeating the amendment.

Two years later, the legalization crowd is back — just as well funded, better organized, and fully aware this is a bare-knuckle brawl.

They also have something they didn’t last time: a powerful ally in the White House. With Kim Rivers, the head of Trulieve, now having Trump’s ear, the biggest marijuana company in the business is no longer playing defense. One suspects it may have event picked up a few new tricks.

What remains unclear is just how deep DeSantis and Uthmeier are willing to go this time to keep the initiative off the ballot — or, failing that, to defeat it. But if past is prologue, this fight is headed to the Mariana Trench. They proved last time that there is very little they won’t do to get their way.

No. 5: The 2026 Legislative Session

If you thought the 2025 Legislative Session — with its extended budget fight and all the late-night brinkmanship — was a car wreck, 2026 is shaping up to be a demolition derby where every driver has a lead foot and a chip on their shoulder.

The bad blood between the House and Senate is unprecedented in the modern, GOP-dominated era. I’ve spoken directly with leaders in both chambers, and there’s no dressing it up. They don’t just distrust each other; they genuinely despise each other. That’s not a vibe. That’s a governing condition.

Yes, they’ll pass a budget. They must. But expect it to come only after several rounds of deliberate pain-infliction — weaponized calendars, stalled priorities, and a whole lot of “oh, that was your thing? Interesting.”

You could already see the outlines of it last year. The budget gap was massive, the tax-cut philosophies shared no DNA, and even the Senate President’s signature “Rural Renaissance” package was fed to the House’s paper shredder and taped back together across multiple bills.

That wasn’t an “oops.” It was intentional. Which is the point. With so many big-ticket fights on the card, expect the next 60 days (… yeah, right …) to be a prolonged exercise in mutually assured irritation.

No. 6: The Florida Men and Women retreating from D.C.

Dan Bongino stepping down as Deputy FBI Director after less than a year is the latest data point in a trend that’s only going to accelerate in 2026: the quiet retreat of Florida Men and Women who flooded Washington during the opening stretch of Trump 2.0.

And yes, it’s fair to pause for a moment and reflect on whether Bongino even qualifies as a Florida Man. He’s a New Yorker by birth who ran for office in Maryland before reinventing himself politically in Florida. Still, he fit the archetype well enough — loud, online, ideologically rigid — and his exit underscores a larger reality: governing the federal bureaucracy is not as fun as owning libs from a studio.

Inside the West Wing, Chief of Staff Susie Wiles, herself a Florida Woman, is likely coming to terms with the downside of importing half the Sunshine State political class into Washington. The administration’s Florida footprint is unmistakable: Marco Rubio as Secretary of State, Pam Bondi as Attorney General, Mike Waltz as Ambassador to the United Nations after a stint as National Security Adviser, and a constellation of former Florida operatives sprinkled throughout the executive branch.

But Florida Man is not especially well-suited to managing sprawling federal agencies and dense bureaucracies. Florida Man isn’t built for rulemaking. He’s built for content. Washington, it turns out, has a way of sorting that out quickly.

No. 7: Sheila Cherfilus-McCormick

If you’re being described — even quietly — as the Democratic version of George Santos, it’s already over. The only question is how much collateral damage gets done on the way out.

U.S. Rep. Sheila Cherfilus-McCormick enters 2026 under the weight of a federal indictment alleging she funneled $5 million in disaster relief funds into her 2021 congressional campaign through a maze of family accounts and straw donors. It’s not a paperwork SNAFU or an ambiguous ethics gray zone. It’s the kind of accusation that freezes leadership posts, invites expulsion chatter, and turns a once-safe seat into an open audition.

Her response so far has been to dig in — denouncing the charges as a sham, fundraising off the indictment itself, and daring the system to blink first. But Washington already has. Democratic leadership pulled her ranking-member gavel, and colleagues are treating the situation like a biohazard: don’t touch, don’t defend, don’t linger.

Back home, the sharks are circling. Her Primary opponents are openly campaigning on the premise that the district deserves a reset, not a soap opera. Even in a D+22 seat, that matters. Voters may tolerate ideology they disagree with, but they have little patience Representatives working around a court schedule.

No. 8: Cory Mills

If noted shoe polish connoisseur and notorious former state Rep. Anthony Sabatini is dogging you, it’s a sign that things have gone spectacularly off the rails.

That’s where U.S. Rep. Cory Mills finds himself heading into 2026. The New Smyrna Beach Republican spent much of the past year fending off a rolling series of scandals that culminated in a late-night House vote to ship yet another censure resolution to the Ethics Committee. The list is long and familiar: Stolen Valor questions, allegations of profiting from federal contracts, dating violence claims, sexual misconduct allegations, and enough interpersonal drama to power a mid-budget streaming series.

Mills, for his part, insists he has “the evidence and receipts” and that everything will be cleared up in due time. Maybe he does. But exhaustion is already setting in on both sides. Even some fellow members of the Florida delegation have publicly bristled at leadership’s repeated efforts to shield him. Outside critics aren’t backing off. And the drip-drip of new allegations ensures this story continues into the new year.

No. 9: María Elvira Salazar

María Elvira Salazar is discovering what happens when you enthusiastically help build the Face-Eating Leopards Party.

For years, Salazar was reliably pro-Trump on immigration, border security, and the broader enforcement-first posture that played well in Republican primaries and conservative media. Now she’s recoiling as the Trump administration does exactly what it said it would do.

Suddenly, Salazar is heartbroken. She’s issuing letters. She’s posting videos. She’s reintroducing her long-stalled “Dignity Act.” She’s pleading for mercy for Venezuelans, Cubans, Haitians and Nicaraguans who make up the backbone of her Miami-Dade district. And yet, when it mattered, she lined up with the very administration now torching the immigration framework she claims to defend.

The result is a politician who finds herself “entre la espada y la pared.” Democrats accuse her of performative outrage. Immigration hardliners see weakness in apostasy. Hispanic voters, meanwhile, are watching friends and family members get swept up in enforcement actions.

Would it be shocking if she drew a serious Primary challenge from her right or found herself in a General Election dogfight fueled by collapsing Hispanic support? Do leopards eat faces?

No. 10: James Fishback

Has Florida ever seen a more bizarre — or less qualified — candidate for Governor attract this much attention? Possibly. But it’s been a while.

James Fishback has earned the distinction of being described as the state’s first openly Groyper gubernatorial candidate, and he’s leaning into it with a campaign designed to inflame, offend, and suck up oxygen. There’s no governing résumé, no coalition and no plausible path to victory. In their place is a steady stream of racially charged rhetoric designed to keep his name circulating.

Calling a sitting Black Congressman a “slave” and then lecturing him on whether he’s allowed to be offended isn’t edgy politics. It’s grotesque. And yet, here we are.

A charitable interpretation is that Fishback is auditioning for a gig in right-wing radio. The less charitable one is that his candidacy reflects a corner of the electorate becoming increasingly comfortable with open bigotry so long as it’s wrapped in internet-native grievance language.

Either way, it’s an embarrassment that the state has to entertain this at all. The only real question is whether the campaign flames out quickly or whether voters are subjected to another eight long months of this circus.

No. 11: The GOP Primary for Chief Financial Officer

Including CFO Blaise Ingoglia and Rep. Kevin Steele in this list isn’t an indictment of either candidate. By every measure, both are credible Republicans with real résumés. The issue isn’t quality — it’s math.

Run this race 1,000 times in a simulator and Ingoglia, the de facto incumbent with the Governor’s backing, wins 99% of them. He has the appointment, the DeSantis endorsement and a steady drumbeat of law enforcement, firefighter, and elected-official endorsements.

Which leaves Steele with a narrow set of options. He has money — a lot of it — and that matters. But in a race where the normal levers are already spoken for, the only realistic way to shake things loose is to go negative. Deeply negative. As in nuclear.

So, if you’re wondering why this otherwise low-drama Cabinet race made the list, look no further than your postbox. Because unless Steele is content with a respectable loss, Floridians should brace for a flood of ugly mail designed to soften Ingoglia up just enough to create doubt even if the odds remain stubbornly long.

No. 12: The Democratic Primary for Governor

The race that will be covered wildly out of proportion to its actual stakes is former U.S. Rep. David Jolly versus Orange County Mayor Jerry Demings. Think of it like the AFC Championship games in the 1990s: intense, overanalyzed, and ultimately a prelude to getting steamrolled by whoever’s coming out of the NFC.

Legacy media will eat this up. Jolly’s town halls will be framed as proof of a moderate revival. Demings’ efforts to activate Black voters will be parsed precinct by precinct. Every endorsement, every cable hit, every clever line will be treated like it meaningfully alters Florida’s trajectory.

It doesn’t.

The underlying math is brutal and getting worse. The voter registration gap between Republicans and Democrats has ballooned past the point where momentum narratives or earnest retail politics can realistically close it. It’s structural.

That doesn’t mean the Primary won’t be competitive or interesting on its own terms. Demings brings institutional credibility and a proven local coalition. Jolly offers a familiar face to disaffected moderates and independents. Either would give Democrats a nominee who can campaign competently and speak fluently about Florida’s problems.

But competence isn’t viability. Whoever wins this Primary is almost certainly walking into a buzzsaw powered by registration math, fundraising asymmetry, and a state Republican Party that long since entered dynasty mode.

So yes, this race will generate headlines. It will produce moments. It will be debated endlessly on panels and podcasts. And then November will come and the race will end in a way that has become routine — decisively.