Paging Doctor Do-Little

A parable of poor decisions and the death of common sense

There’s a lot going on in Camelot 2.0 right now—much of it exhausting. No fewer than 30 Substacks I follow covered yesterday’s delightful [not sarcastic] news of Kennedy’s “reconstituting” the entire Biden-appointed CDC vaccine advisory committee with a pledge to replace them with his own picks (yay!). The celebration was short-lived—it’s always short-lived these days.

Within hours, I had received at least half as many emails demanding Kennedy’s immediate removal (and these are from people on our team!) for conditionally approving Moderna’s new Covid vaccine.

The tweet is from last week, but the outrage is fresh.

I get it. Covid vaccines? Awful. mRNA? The worst. Every second the charade continues, people are being harmed. Many of them will die. The shots must stop. We know these things unequivocally. More importantly, we supported RFK Jr. because we know that he knows them, too. But labeling him a murderous traitor and calling for his resignation when he’s only been in office a few short months seems short-sighted, counterproductive, and—frankly—naïve.

I honestly don’t know how many times I can point out that Kennedy is one man up against a deadly, powerful, furious hydra. Or that he’s the only bureaucrat in modern history to call out the dangers of any vaccines, demand independent safety testing, and vow to end the cozy cartel between regulators and industry. He’s also the only one talking about vaccine injury compensation, government collusion with social media censorship, and the chronic illness epidemic that is directly tied to pharma malfeasance.

But because he’s not dodging knives fast enough for some folks’ liking, we should fire him on the spot? And then what? Has a member of Team Cancel Kennedy offered up even a single alternative? Do his army of detractors really think they’ve thought this through?

As I’ve mentioned three or four thousand times by this point, we do not know what is going on behind those political doors. None of us do. We don’t know who’s being bribed or threatened or blackmailed or worse. Have you ever tried to fix a broken federal agency while swimming through shark-infested molasses and simultaneously being booed by your own base? I haven’t, but I imagine it’s about half as fun as giving a porcupine a pedicure—blindfolded, during a lightning storm.

Instead of beating the same poor, dead horse, I thought I’d write you guys a little story. A parable, if you will. Maybe it’ll resonate. Maybe it won’t. Maybe you’ll call me a murderer-by-association, or print this post and then shred it to make your own cat litter. Whatever. This is my Substack, and we live in a free country (at the moment). So enjoy. Or don’t. I’m not for everyone, what can I say? ;)

Paging Dr. Do-Little

Once upon a time in the quirky town of Placebo Springs, population 742 (and dropping), there was exactly one medical expert: Dr. Justice R. Goodheart. Dr. G wasn’t just the town’s only physician—he was also the part-time coroner, unofficial therapist, and once, in an unfortunate scheduling mix-up, the Dairy Queen Blizzard™ machine fixer.

Dr. Goodheart truly loved his work. He mended broken bones, treated all manner of tricky sniffles and scratchy rashes, and listened patiently to long, detailed stories about how Marvin’s arthritis flared up whenever Mercury was in retrograde. He worked 20-hour days, survived on vending machine crackers and cold coffee, and wore Crocs with holes worn clean through the soles.

But here’s the thing: Dr. Goodheart had inherited a mess. Before he moved to Placebo Springs and hung up his shingle, a “medicine man” had been running the show—handing out poisonous berries as cures for everything from hiccups to heartbreak. Folks had been told they’d literally die if they didn’t eat the berries, and by that time, a huge berry cartel was making a living by growing, promoting, or peddling them.

Placebo Springs was split down the middle. Half the town wanted berries for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The other half had begun to realize they were ruby-red beads of death.

Doc was squarely in the latter camp (he’d worked as the produce manager at the Piggly Wiggly in high school and was married to a toxicologist), so with the enthusiastic support of the skeptics, he tried to banish the berries.

All hell broke loose.

The berry brigade accused him of being a racist, homophobic, fruit-denier. Women stood outside his office with handwritten signs that read, “MY BERRIES, MY CHOICE.” The pro-berry crowd threatened to have him banned from the Placebo Springs Swap Facebook group (and you might as well move to Poland at that point).

Then tragedy struck. Old Man McGillicutty—103 years old and made almost entirely of Werther’s Originals and spite—choked to death eating his nightly slice of dessert.

Dr. Goodheart filled out the death certificate. Cause of death? Poisonberry pie.

Placebo Springs went to war. Half the townspeople blamed Dr. Goodheart for not banning the berries that killed the old cooter; the other half blamed him for recklessly fueling anti-berry hysteria and causing people to question the safety of a time-honored dessert just because one guy with brittle windpipes died while eating it. Before the good doctor could even put on a fresh pair of scrubs, both halves were demanding his resignation.

The residents gathered for a town hall. One woman wept over a photo of her late grandmother. (It had nothing to do with Dr. G or the berries; she carried that photo everywhere and just loved a good cry.) Another man brought a pitchfork, although it was unclear if it was symbolic or he’d just come straight from the field.

“We demand accountability!” they shouted. “If you can’t keep all of Placebo Springs healthy, we’ll find someone who can!”

Dr. Goodheart, covered in three different people’s bodily fluids and running on 38 minutes of sleep, nodded sadly. “Who here would like to take over my job?” he asked.

Silence.

“Well, who has any medical training?”

Crickets.

“Okay, then, who’s willing to go to medical school?” he tried.

Blank stares.

“Who’ll study anatomy? Sign up for a CPR class? Watch a YouTube video?”

The sound of paint drying.

Finally, one guy raised his hand and said he had once dated a nurse, but it didn’t end well.

And here’s the thing: For every person Dr. Goodheart hadn’t been able to save, there were dozens he had. Like Jenny, who fell off the barn roof trying to install solar panels by moonlight. And Grandpa Pete, who mistook his hearing aid batteries for Tic Tacs. And that time the entire Boy Scout troop developed beaver fever from swimming in a pond that was 14% duck feces.

But those stories didn’t trend.

The truth is, Dr. Goodheart was the best shot they had. He was their only shot. But they couldn’t see that. They wanted him to be able to cure diseases that hadn’t been discovered yet, bring Aunt Gladys back from the dead, and convince generational berry-growers that they’d been pushing toxic stinkfruit all along.

Nuance wasn’t really Placebo Spring’s strong suit.

So they drove him out.

Literally. Someone gave him a broken-down bicycle and told him to “leave at dawn or face the farmers.” People cheered as he slowly rolled away, Crocs squeaking with each spin of the pedals. Miss Darlene from the feed store crossed herself with a Slim Jim and whispered, “Let this town be at peace.”

Placebo Springs was not prepared for the consequences.

Within a week, the mayor mistook Gorilla Glue for hemorrhoid cream. The town’s only mail carrier broke his ankle tripping over a rogue raccoon napping in the middle of Main Street. A preschool teacher named Sage took over “health duties” and prescribed everyone a juice cleanse made entirely of morning sweat, garlic, and regret.

By winter, Placebo Springs had become a medical wasteland. People were wrapping sprained ankles with dampened CVS receipts and overdosing on Alka-Seltzer. The town's emergency medical hotline had no operator—callers could still enjoy whale sounds and affirmations, though—and with no one to see patients, the single clinic was shuttered.

Eventually, a group of desperate townsfolk sent out a smoke signal—or maybe it was just the candle shop catching fire again—and whispered into the wind:
“Dr. Goodheart… if you can hear us… please come back.”

But Dr. Goodheart was already five zip codes away, running a cozy clinic where people appreciated his efforts and occasionally brought him cookies.

And Placebo Springs? Well, the population is down to 27. But on the bright side, it’s now the official Poisonberry Capital of the World. They’ve got a giant sign and everything.