Nicole Shanahan just nuked her political past like she found out it was full of moldy adaptogens and cult starter kits. In a scorching thread on X (the site formerly known as Twitter, now mostly known for ruin), she accused RFK Jr.—her former running mate and current Secretary of “Health”—of either lying straight to her kombucha-sipping face or being puppeteered by someone else entirely.
And not by Trump, she says.
Nope. Not Big Don. Not the orange puppetmaster.
So… who’s holding the leash?
Peter Thiel whispering in tongues? Calley Means with a wellness Ouija board? Is Dr. Oz calling the shots?
Hell if she knows. But she’s pissed.
THE DETOXIFIED DAGGER
Here’s the timeline: Trump’s Surgeon General nominee, Dr. Janette Nesheiwat, got yeeted into the sun after her résumé turned out to be more suited for a Fox News greenroom than an ICU. Enter Casey Means—Stanford-educated, yes, but also a cofounder of Levels, the blood sugar startup that’s basically Fitbit for people who use words like “cleanse” as a verb.
Trump, ever the delegator of doom, said:
“Bobby really thought she was great.”
So he gave her the job. That’s how policy works now. Vibes, not vetting.
And Nicole Shanahan? She’s watching this unfold like it’s a cult documentary she accidentally helped fund.
Because here’s the kicker: she says she was explicitly promised—hand to goddess—that neither Casey nor her equally smarmy brother Calley would ever sniff a federal health post if she helped push RFK’s confirmation through the Senate.
Cut to May 2025:
Calley’s whispering ayurvedic nothings into the ear of HHS.
Casey’s about to be Surgeon Fucking General.
And Nicole is live-tweeting like she just found out her probiotic powder was laced with LSD and regret.
“THEY FEEL BRED AND RAISED TO BE MANCHURIAN ASSETS”
That’s an actual quote from Shanahan. Not parody. Not satire.
She described the Means siblings as “very artificial and aggressive,” like they were 3D-printed in a libertarian protein lab and programmed to burn down public health from the inside out. Which is wild, considering she used to praise them like they were her polycule’s spirit guides.
Now she’s sounding the alarm like someone woke up from a juice fast and realized they joined a death cult.
And you know what?
She might be late. But she’s not wrong.
RFK JR.: THE MOUTH OF SEDONA
Kennedy isn’t just whispering pseudoscience into microphones anymore—he’s got the whole damn Department of Health and Human Services under his hemp belt. This is a man who thinks WiFi causes cancer and that autism is a government plot—and now he’s steering the ship with one hand on the detox lever and the other inside a mason jar of ancestral bone broth.
He’s proposed a national autism registry.
He’s dismantled core vaccine safety infrastructure.
He’s pushing policies like they were handed down in a dream from the ghost of Steve Jobs riding a peyote eagle.
And now his pick for America’s top medical voice is someone whose last job was convincing tech bros that glucose spikes are the new witchcraft.
This isn’t a Cabinet. This is a multi-level marketing scheme.
WHO THE HELL IS DRIVING?
Shanahan insists it’s not Trump.
So who is it? Thiel? Musk? A psy-op run out of a cryotherapy chamber?
Or is no one in control?
That’s the most terrifying possibility: There is no mastermind. Just a daisy chain of egos, influencers, and broken NDAs.
RFK Jr. is improvising his way through health policy like it’s a drum circle.
Trump’s letting him, because he’s already moved on to his next tantrum.
And Nicole? She’s staring into the kombucha-scented void and realizing she helped build this monster with her own two donor-class hands.
FINAL THOUGHT
Let’s not pretend this is a revolution. It’s not even a movement anymore. It’s a biohacked Ponzi scheme in Birkenstocks, run by influencers who once went viral for telling you to stop eating seed oils.
Nicole Shanahan was in the room. She had the receipts. She smiled for the cameras.
Now she’s on the outside, screaming into the abyss, finally realizing:
RFK Jr. is the system now.
And the system is running on vibes, vitamin D, and weapons-grade delusion.
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This post has been syndicated from Closer to the Edge, where it was published under this address.