In the latest installment of Government vs. Germ: The Slapfight, Texas invited measles back like an ex who once set the couch on fire, and Washington replied, We’d help, but we lent our extinguisher to ideology. The virus RSVP’d with confetti, because nothing says party like a pathogen that treats your immune system as an open bar. I brought snacks, which in my line of work are called vaccines.

According to people who still believe in calendars and consequences, the CDC tried to sprint while the administration quietly tied ankle weights labeled optics and states’ rights, then shouted, Look, it’s running weird. Yes, it’s hard to sprint with a policy attached like a carry-on full of wishes.

Emergency briefings reportedly began with, This is fine, followed by a PowerPoint of a raccoon in a lab coat shrugging at a wildfire, and ended with a directive to manifest herd immunity. Manifestation works great for parking spots, less so for viruses that consider your lungs high-speed rail.

As your neighborhood clinician who trusts randomized trials almost as much as coffee, I can confirm germs don’t negotiate; they just crash weddings and leave a rash instead of a registry. Hope is not a protocol, and vibes are not PPE.

Texans were told to monitor the situation, which is what you say when your kitchen floods and you decide to journal about humidity while the faucet laughs. So people started grabbing ‘pediatric KN95 mask pack’ like it was the last merch table before the outbreak’s encore, and I started explaining that sequins are not N95-rated.

The CDC, meanwhile, was asked to submit a travel request, a permission slip, and a note from their immune system before offering help, which is a fun administrative twist when your clock is measured in incubation periods. Time flies when you’re counting spots.

At one point, a senior official allegedly proposed building a wall around measles; unfortunately, viruses have passports stamped air, eyes, and your cousin’s birthday party. The only checkpoint measles respects is a syringe with a tiny diplomatic seal that says MMR.

Local docs asked for vaccine clinics, and federal emails replied with a brochure on rugged individualism, which is excellent for chopping wood and terrible for neutralizing a virus that thinks six feet is the comedic setup to airborne. Freedom is lovely; it pairs well with a functioning immune response.

I asked for data, and the data said, Please just vaccinate me, so the state set up food trucks and I set up directions to a ‘MMR vaccine appointment scheduler’. Herd immunity isn’t a feeling; it’s math on roller skates held upright by needles and consent forms.

A Monty Python reenactment broke out in my waiting room: Bring out your unvaccinated! But I feel fine! You won’t, dear, that’s literally the incubation period, shouted the CDC, clacking coconut shells to simulate budget cuts. We all agreed to fetch the Holy Grail of coordinated response, but it turned out to be a printer cartridge.

By the time the paperwork approved urgency, the curve had already done its little trampoline trick, and we were left explaining that personal liberty includes the liberty to not infect the neighbor’s baby. Keep your opinions; lose the virus.

In conclusion, the response plan read like a wellness smoothie—lots of fruit, zero protein—while measles brought a flamethrower to a juice cleanse. Hydrate and walk, yes, but also roll up your sleeve, because the only acceptable comeback tour is science’s, and spoiler: early results show the raccoon still has measles and the syringe does not.