RFK Jr. held a glass of the glyphosate cocktail, staring into it as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

The East Room of the White House had been transformed. Instead of the usual floral arrangements, the centerpieces were decorative gallon jugs of Roundup, tied with silk ribbons. Waiters in tuxedoes circulated with silver trays holding crystal coupes filled with a neon-yellow liquid that smelled faintly of a suburban garage in mid-July.

At the center of it all stood President Donald Trump, adjusting his tie in a nearby mirror before turning to the gathered press and a bewildered cabinet. “Look at this color,” Trump said, pointing to a shimmering glass of weed killer. “People say it’s dangerous. The fake news, the radical left — they want you to be afraid of the grass-killer. But I’ve seen the grass. The grass is beautiful after this stuff. Very disciplined grass. No weeds. We need that for the country. We’re going to spray the border, we’re going to spray the bureaucracy. It’s a beautiful thing.”

Standing to the President’s left was RFK Jr., who looked like he was undergoing a slow-motion internal crisis. He was wearing a suit made of organic hemp that appeared to be slightly damp. He held a glass of the glyphosate cocktail, staring into it as if it contained the secrets of the universe — or his own political undoing.

“Donald,” Bobby whispered, his voice rasping with the intensity of a man who had once performed an autopsy on a roadkill bear. “The endocrine disruptors… the shikimate pathway… my neurons are literally screaming in Latin.”

“Bobby, you’re too........

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