STD of Camelot: Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

The worm-brained kazoo who turned the CDC into a clown car and called it public health.

Now that we know that you know who hasn’t yet departed, we can get back to our regularly scheduled mockery…

How the fuck is this real life? Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is in charge of America’s health.

This isn’t a Cabinet appointment, it’s a cosmic fucking prank. The man looks like a pelican that crash-landed in a septic tank, came up covered in shit, and strutted around like it was cologne. He’s the human version of a 7-Eleven burrito that’s been spinning under a heat lamp since 1997 — cracked open, leaking rancid sludge, one bite away from giving the whole country explosive diarrhea. His voice sounds like a kazoo being deep-throated in a truck stop bathroom, his brain fires like a malfunctioning pinball machine stuffed with dead rats, and his charisma hovers somewhere between “hangnail” and “used condom on a playground slide.” This septic burrito–pelican–rat-machine hybrid is running America’s health policy. Not a leader. Not a reformer. Just the Curb Your Enthusiasm closing theme in the flesh, wobbling into history like a blooper reel with herpes.

No one actually trusted him with this shit. Not then. Not now. Not ever. No one with a single firing synapse thought, “Yes, let this sweaty kazoo disaster run our immune system.” The only people who trust him are lunatics who think Wi-Fi mutates DNA, lavender oil cures leukemia, and Bill Gates is hiding in the polio vaccine with a USB stick. The rest of us recoil like we just opened Tupperware that’s been in the fridge since the Bush administration.

His résumé could fit on a cocktail napkin, with space left over for a dick doodle. He even admitted it: “Don’t take medical advice from me.” And he meant it. This is a man who once bragged, “I was at the bottom of my class. I started doing heroin and I went to the top of my class. Suddenly, I could sit still and I could read.” Heroin — his academic strategy. That’s not a résumé, that’s a DEA rap sheet stapled to a D.A.R.E. coloring book.

And yet here we are: the man who still insists vaccines cause autism without a shred of evidence, who creepily claims he can diagnose kids just by staring at them in airports, who tells Americans not to trust experts while slobbering into microphones — this fucker is in charge of the nation’s immune system. That’s not policy. That’s a deleted Dateline episode called “To Catch a Cabinet Secretary.” It’s malpractice scored to the Curb Your Enthusiasm closing theme, the whole country limping along to a laugh track while our top health official deep-throats conspiracy theories like they’re Thin Mints.

He isn’t in that chair because he cares. He’s in that chair because his last name is Kennedy, and the White House thought strapping that brand onto an anti-vax clown would win over Facebook moms with pantries full of expired essential oils. His own family — HIS OWN FAMILY — begged the Senate not to confirm him. Picture being so embarrassing that the people who share your DNA are basically filing for genetic divorce in front of the nation: “Yes, we are Kennedys, but no, not that one. That one eats glue.” That’s not politics. That’s ancestry.com begging for a refund.

And let’s not forget who appointed him: the dark-hands madman who fucked up COVID so catastrophically that bodies of dead Americans were stacked in refrigerator trucks while he was golfing. Families saying goodbye on FaceTime while the orange Mussolini of Mar-a-Lago was bragging about his swing. That guy looked at Bobby “heroin-is-my-Adderall” Kennedy Jr. and said, “Perfect, give him the CDC.”

Once inside, he torched the place like a baboon high on paint thinner breakdancing in a matchstick factory. Directors fired, scientists fleeing in synchronized disgust. Their replacements? Anti-vax grifters whose idea of peer review is a Telegram chat run by FreedomEagle69. Policies drafted before evidence existed. That’s not science. That’s Mad Libs for sociopaths, a choose-your-own-adventure where every ending is cholera.

He gutted foodborne illness surveillance next. FoodNet, from eight pathogens down to two. That’s like telling firefighters they can only put out campfires while the city burns. Which means the rest of the rogues’ gallery is wide open: E. coli O157, MDR-Salmonella, Hepatitis A, Norovirus, Campylobacter, Listeria, botulism, Clostridium, Giardia, Cryptosporidium, Toxoplasma gondii, Shigella, cholera, Staph aureus, Vibrio, Ciguatoxin, Bacillus cereus. That’s not oversight, that’s the Cheesecake Factory menu of diarrhea. It’s Pokémon, except every card gives you projectile vomiting. Your kid’s cafeteria lunch is now an episode of Fear Factor.

And while Bobby Brain Worm was fumbling pathogens like juggling pins at clown college, the Trump-Kennedy freak show axed clinical trials for kids with brain cancer. Not curing children — ripping away their last shot at survival. That’s not negligence. That’s cartoon-villain evil.

This is the same man who thought dumping a bear in the woods was a good idea. Who was tied to a whale decapitation. Who served up blenders full of baby birds. Who literally had a dead brain worm crawling around inside his skull. Bear-dumper. Whale-decapitator. Bird-blender. Worm-brain. That’s the résumé. That’s the guy with his hands on the public health steering wheel.

Picture a CDC meeting now: not scientists, but a chiropractor with a lava lamp, a mommy blogger vlogging about “moon water,” and some guy named Todd whose kombucha scoby whispers vaccine advice. That’s not governance, that’s open-mic night at Burning Man. Presiding over it all is Bobby Kennedy Jr., a lemur on bath salts with a Cabinet title, shrieking, “Don’t trust the experts!”

Motherfucker, you are the reason experts exist!

The laugh track dies there.

People will die. Children will die. Immunocompromised people will die. Grandparents will die. People who could have been saved will be buried because Bobby decided science was optional. Herd immunity is not a vibe. It’s math. He’s not JFK. He’s not RFK. He’s DIYK — Do It Yourself Kennedy — duct-taping public health together with kombucha, horoscopes, heroin nostalgia, and whatever his brain worm whispered before it croaked.

And viruses don’t give a fuck. Measles doesn’t pause to hear your podcast. Polio doesn’t stop for your shaky karaoke. Norovirus doesn’t care about Camelot. They spread. They replicate. They kill. And thanks to Bobby, they’re staging a comeback tour like Nickelback — except instead of tickets, you get diarrhea, polio, and a refrigerator truck ride.

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. isn’t a reformer. He isn’t a visionary. He isn’t even a crank worth tolerating. He’s America’s STD — itchy, incurable, embarrassing, and contracted because somebody fucked around without protection. And like herpes, every time you think he’s gone, he flares right back up, screaming about Wi-Fi and autism in the nation’s group chat.

He hasn’t given us a health policy; he’s handed us a nationwide hospital bill with no cap, no coverage, and no end date. Our anthem is now the sound of an insurance rep sighing, “Sorry, that’s out-of-network,” while the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme plays over footage of Bobby deep-throating a kazoo.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys.

Please stay safe, stay strong, and laugh whenever the fuck you can for as long as you can at whatever you can.

💙 Jo