Fauci Lied, Millions Died, Part VII: Now With Handwritten Proof!

Turns out narcissists keep meticulous receipts. (Who knew?)

Every few months, someone with just enough clout teases that another “Fauci bombshell” is coming—and this one, we’re promised, is going to be a doozy. There’ll be a congressional hearing. Whistleblower testimony. An oversight committee report. The world’s most damning document dump. The words perjury and obstruction and crimes against humanity get bandied about like glitter-dipped shuttlecocks in a Vegas badminton tournament. This is it, we think for the eleventy billionth time. The architect—or at least the project manager—of the pandemic is going down!

ALL OF THE PREVIOUSLY PRESENTED EVIDENCE: “Anthony Fauci manufactured the AIDS crisis, tortured beagles in NIH-funded labs for decades, created Covid, allowed it to be unleashed on the planet, ran a criminal conspiracy to destroy federal records and suppress the lab leak narrative, coordinated with Facebook to shape content moderation policies around ‘vaccine misinformation,’ and then lied about all of it under oath. Repeatedly.”

AMERICAN JUSTICE SYSTEM TO DATE: “Godspeed, kind sir. Enjoy your well-earned retirement and this 10-karat gold pen.”

Wishful thinking in meme form.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve allowed myself to hope that I might live long enough to see that weasel nailed to the nearest wall—or at least be publicly humiliated, stripped of his taxpayer-funded pension, relieved of every honorary title, and relegated to signing soiled, second-hand copies of On Call: A Doctor’s Journey in Public Service in the back of a smelly thrift store somewhere on Skid Row—I’d be typing this from the breezy rooftop deck of my Parisian pied-à-terre and not my cloffice [closet/office] in central Texas, where the current temperature is hovering just north of one-hundred-and-surface-of-the-sun degrees.

So you’ll forgive me if I didn’t pay much attention to the “Fauci Diaries” posts when they started dropping over the weekend. Especially since they were all dripping in Rand Paul. Don’t get me wrong; Paul’s one of the better senators out there, but he’s already called Fauci in for questioning six times and referred him to the DOJ for criminal prosecution twice. To date, his efforts have produced a grand total of [*checks notes*] zero consequences. Trip me seven times, shame on me.

But when Dr. Death’s face had hijacked my X feed like a certain white Ford Bronco in 1994, I felt obligated to see what all the fuss was about.

To my disappointment, Senator Paul did not discover a leather-bound journal with a brass lock and the words PERSONAL AND PRIVATE, DO NOT READ embossed on the cover in Fauci’s nightstand. But close. The “Fauci Diaries” are a cache of more than 1,000 pages of the unelected bureaucrat’s contemporaneous notes chronicling meetings, media interactions, public appearances, phone calls, White House tensions, and private observations obtained through a Senate investigation spanning the period from December 2019 to December 2022. In short, a meticulously documented paper trail from the same three years the man wielded more influence over American lives than any other public servant [*throws up in mouth*] in history.

You wouldn’t think the highest-paid employee in the federal government would be dumb enough to document his own professional misconduct. And yet there it is—along with facts, figures, and footnotes he’d later deny under oath plus a humiliating index of his raging self-absorption.

Proof that AI is good for something.

If this had been an actual, eighth-grade-style diary, it would have “Anthony + The Media 4EVER” doodled all over it. It turns out during the height of the pandemic, Fauci wasn’t just briefing reporters—he was practically making out with them. Having private dinners at Jake Tapper’s home. Gushing over friendly texts from Dana Bash praising him after congressional spats. Cozying up to Wolf Blitzer, George Stephanopoulos, Maureen Dowd, Anna Wintour, and other powerful media players whose job was to be impartial. It’s sort of like finding out the referee has been partying all season with the team that plays the dirtiest and has never been flagged for a single foul.

You see how this works, right?

The real love story, however, wasn’t Fauci and CNN or Fauci and The New York Times; it was Fauci and Fauci. Even as case counts soared and the death toll climbed into the tens of thousands, the Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases was more obsessed with his own celebrity than the catastrophe unfolding around him.

He marveled that his “national and international fame is explosive,” and insisted that it was “not hyperbole to say that today I am the most famous and talked-about person in the country and one of the most recognizable in the world.” He cataloged fawning profiles and TV invitations (including a Dancing with the Stars request) like a fitness influencer tracking likes. “Press still hot and heavy about me. Multiple stories per day directly or indirectly involving me,” he boasted. After visiting America’s Top Model Tyra Banks’ Instagram page, he wrote, “One person said that Tyra was sexy, but that I was even more sexy than she was.” He did. He wrote that down. In the literal sense. Somewhere people could find it. If he wasn’t a murderous bastard, you’d almost feel sorry for the guy.

The diary also reveals several serious conflicts of interest, like Fauci asking so-called scientists to nominate him for awards—many of which came with massive cash prizes—and then turning around and awarding the very same scientists billions in NIAID grants. We’ve also got our honest and upstanding friend describing Covid early on as a “bad flu” with a fatality rate of “0.2 to 0.3%,” which is super awkward because just a month later, he testified before Congress that Covid was “ten times more lethal than the flu.” Then there’s Dr. Flip-Flop bragging about encouraging New York and California to shutter schools—something he routinely and categorically denied having anything to do with.

The most damning entries are among the earliest—before the narratives even hardened. In February of 2020, Fauci gathered top scientists to assess the “novel virus’s” origins. His own notes show genuine uncertainty and serious concern. “Deliberate insertion” in the spike protein was discussed. So was “accidental release.” In his own words, Fauci noted that combo was “the most likely.” Within weeks, however, the wet-market theory wasn’t just the leading explanation, it was the only explanation worthy of polite society. Lab leaks and gain-of-function research were the purview of science deniers and horse-paste aficionados.

All of which isn’t just material for an embarrassing biography; it’s set to be part of cross-examination. Dr. Faucistein will testify before the Senate Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee this Wednesday about his role in the government’s (read: his own) handling of the pandemic. I’m a tiny bit excited about it, too.

I know. Fauci got that prophylactic hall pass. The five-year federal statute of limitations to indict him for perjury expired in May without so much as a wrist slap. That ship has sailed. And even I can admit that Paul’s track record of prosecution here is less than stellar. But still, this time might actually be different.

(I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.)

My next book, maybe.

Because here’s the thing. Fauci’s previous six grillings were largely voluntary appearances. This time Paul had to subpoena him—meaning the masked midget fought being there. He’s being dragged in against his will, not strolling in for a photo op. That all by its little lonesome is delightfully telling.

Critically, this time around, there’s also hard evidence in the house. Where earlier hearings relied on redacted emails and circumstantial evidence, Congress now has Fauci’s own handwriting contradicting his previous sworn testimony. Paul can hold up the key witness’s diary entry from February 1, 2020—the one where he recorded his concerns about a lab leak—and then play the clip of Fauci calling the lab leak a conspiracy theory. That’s not just awkward, it’s Exhibit A.

Just Fauci tracking Fauci’s fandom. Not creepy at all.

Readers will likely recall that back in April, Fauci’s senior advisor David Morens was indicted for concealing and destroying federal records. Prosecutors also allege he conducted business Hillary Clinton-style and solicited grant kickbacks. At the time, Fauci painted his professional relationship with Morens as one you might have with the guy who rotates your tires every 50,000 miles. (It’s a strange thing to admit about your senior advisor—but that’s what he said.) The new documents show Fauci actively arranging private calls with Morens to discuss the grant controversy and Morens telling Fauci that critics were trying to “bring [him] down” over it. In other words, they were coordinating. Strategizing. Privately. Routinely. (Is the punishment for perjury decided, like, by degree? Or is the act itself the crime no matter how many times you commit it, like contempt or conspiracy? Asking for a friend.)

Finally, there’s the autopen pardon. Trump declared it void—which looks bad for the weasel but doesn’t automatically erase the pardon, unfortunately. The DOJ would have to charge Fauci with a crime, at which point a federal judge—not politicians or pundits—would decide whether the pardon actually protects him. So, hardly an arraignment… but not a laminated get-out-of-jail-free card with no expiration date either.

I’m not expecting Fauci to be led out of this week’s hearing in handcuffs, as much as I’d treasure that image for the rest of my days. But I’ll be watching nevertheless. The diaries give lawmakers ammunition they’ve never had before, because they openly contradict countless earlier claims. Every time Fauci lies under oath again—and Paul openly says he expects him to—he hands future prosecutors another priceless gift.

Here’s what I predict: Paul will ask his questions. Fauci will hem and hedge and insist over and over, “Senaduh, I do not ruhcawel.” He’ll lie about how many lives he saved and brag about how many death threats he’s received, as if those two numbers somehow cancel each other out. He’ll claim his diary entries were taken out of context. He’ll argue that the phrase “most likely” does not in fact mean likelier than most. It’ll be frustrating and infuriating and I’m sure I’ll check my calendar—and my pulse—at least once to make sure I’m not in the grips of a stroke or trapped in some bizarre time machine malfunction.

And even if nothing happens on Wednesday—no perjury charge, no dramatic confession, no perp-walk to a paddy wagon idling on Constitution Avenue—one thing’s certain: there’s no going backward from here. The diaries exist. They’re in the public record. Every future hearing, FOIA request, forensic review, and federal investigation gets built on this foundation. The case doesn’t have to be closed this week. It just needs to stay open.