Thanks for your support: 30% off 💙 40% off 💙 50% off 💙 60% off 💙 80% off

Shirtless and drooling, RFK Jr. loped up to the podium. He’d been experimenting with running on all fours. It propelled him faster than walking speed, but it caused the necklace of harvested racoon penises he wore to jangle and flop all about.

A necklace of flopping, decaying, rancid racoon penises. That’s your U.S. Secretary of health and human services. It’s the guy who pulls over his car at the sight of road kill, saws off the penis, and loads the body into the trunk because it will be useful for a “practical joke” to be named later.

He never pauses even for a moment to consider the state of decay. The smell of rancid meat doesn’t bother him. In fact, the brain worm that controls his actions prefers to be surrounded by the cold stench of imminent death.

Oh sweet, sweet release!

He straightened himself at the podium and threw a nod to Kid Rock. In a voice that sounded like ten thousand angry, penisless racoons running their claws across a blackboard, he said, “Let’s hear it for my buddy, the kiddy. He’s got a new single coming out called ‘angry, mediocre, rich, man-child, white boy.’ Let’s hear it for him.

And all the crowd gave a feeble, “Hooray.”

Then RFK kicked back his head and cawed like an eagle plummeting to its death. The abrupt, jerky motion caused the rotting racoon penises to crumble. Bits started flaking off and falling to the podium. Noticing this, RFK’s eyes lit up.

“A snack!” he cried. Then he began to push the rancid bits between his teeth and gums while making disgusting hissing and sucking sounds.

The press corps looked on astonished, holding back their gag reflexes.

“Well then,” RFK said. “No more vaccines for anyone. There’s no vaccine for my disease! No more medicine. I snort cocaine of nasty toilet seats. From now on, you’ll all eat diarrhea inducing salad because you’re overweight. All of you!”

Nodding his head that looked like a pencil eraser, he broke into a back flip and did a quick lap around the room on all fours.

“We’re also banning books at schools because they’re bad for our children’s eyes. Instead, we’ll have them looking directly into high beam lights. We’ll peel their lids back so they can’t blink. They just blink to be lazy anyway. We’ll drive that knowledge into their minds. They’ll have to listen to Joe Rogan and Charlie Kirk for 24 straight hours a day.”

“What about bathroom breaks!”

“They don’t need them! They can overcome the basic need for digestion through patriotism and force of will. Yee-haw! ‘Murica!”

Kid Rock was so impressed he began to sing his latest hit. He called himself a musician, but all he ever did was write new lyrics to somebody else’s music. This one was sung to the tune of The Star Spangled Banner.

“Mediocre white man, with a gun in each hand…”

RFK went into another four legged lap. One penis bounced right into his mouth and he began chewing on it like it was a cigar.

“I envision a world where we all go pantsless!” Then he ripped off his own pants to the delight of no one.

A beam of moonlight split through the room. It touched RFK’s decaying flesh and he began to transform. Thick tufts of hair burst from his skin. His fingernails extended into vicous knives, long, nasty, chalky, and yellow!

“My name is Irachnayvasillas! I am the king of all brain worms! Behold this host I have stolen! Bow down before me and tremble!”

His rancid fingers were now over two feet long. Every muscle of his body clenched so tightly that the lupine hair couldn’t break the surface. It churned beneath as the pressure built.

The press corps began to retreat.

“I and I alone shall tell you what is right for your human children! They won’t have vaccines and greens! They’ll eat rat penis. They rub their soft cheeks against soiled toilet seats. We need a nation of strong young men, not tepid little coddled doilies.”

Kid Rock continued, “Though he’s always believed, he’s constantly aggrieved…”

“Now is the moment for the primal scream!” hollered RFK. Then in a voice like ten thousand drowning rats, he blasted the room with an incoherent cacophony of ignorance.

Then the doors broke in, much to the relief of the press corps. But their hope was short-lived as they looked upon an army of angry racoons. Each of them bore a white bandage in the shape of an X where their penis should be.

“You!” they called as one! “Devourer! Defiler!”

“Do you speak of me or Irachnayvasillas?” RFK said.

But that just enraged the racoons, and they charged, howling, with a ferocity and volume that matched that of the deranged secretary of Health and Human services.

At the back of the room, huddling beneath a desk, one poor reporter muttered, “Dear god, how did we get here?”

That reporter was me.

This all happened. It’s true.

Thanks for your support: 30% off 💙 40% off 💙 50% off 💙 60% off 💙 80% off

I'd Rather Be Writing is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Get full access to I'd Rather Be Writing at walterrhein.substack.com/subscribe