A Tale of Two Bobbies
I’ve seen a lot of stupid shit during my fifty-one year stay on this jackass planet. A friend of mine, his grown ass son tried to siphon gas out of a hearse one night. He decided to flick his Zippo so he could see how much progress he was making, ignited the fumes, caught everything on fire, including for a brief panicked moment, himself. All of it captured on glorious surveillance video. I watched my brother video record himself on his cellphone burning his beloved ’85 Bronco down to the fucking tires while out drinking and fishing. He got lit, got lost, and fearing the cops were closing in, and being on probation, figured the law couldn’t nab him for drinking and driving if his vehicle was incinerated. So much stupid shit. Too much to rightly remember. But nothing prepared me for the deeply weird shit that is the RFK jr/Kid Rock video currently making the rounds.
How do you describe it? The video plays out like gay eroticism for the homosexually autistic. It’s a bad, live action Ren and Stimpy episode except somehow even more absurd.
They meet up, maybe in RFK’s fuck pad. They immediately strip their shirts off, as sober, normal friends often do upon greeting each other. The duo immediately absconds to the sauna room where someone had dragged a yard sale style exercise bike into the foreground. Instead of jackets hanging off the handlebars like every exercise bike I’ve ever seen, it’s a shirtless RFK wearing a pair of Wrangler blue jeans as weird fellas who enjoy a bit of the cardio are wont to do. In the background, Kid Rock wearing a pair of black shorts like a five-year-old Henry Rollins struggles with his second push-up.
Goddam, Kid Rock got ugly since he traded in Joe C for hepatitis C. And he was never easy to look at to begin with. His eyes look like a pair of the world’s dumbest lizards nestled on the scrotum of a spider monkey that’s just entered phase three of Valtrex experimentation.
Then they switch places, and I’m absolutely convinced Kid Rock doesn’t pedal for very long. Today ain’t leg day for that goofy bastard, nor had it ever been for a lifetime of yesterdays. There are bandy roosters that have never known a penetrating finger to the asshole seconds before a cockfight to the death in a Cullman County dirt pit that have thicker leg muscles than the pins holding Kid Rock semi-erect.
They must have worked up a sweat somewhere off camera, though, because at some point RFK decides he needs to take a cold plunge. In his Wrangler jeans. Mercifully, I suppose, given the alternative. There’s no denying RFK jr is in excellent shape from the neck down. He looks like what Joe Biden might resemble if Joe Biden were suddenly cast as a superhero in a Marvel movie and given three months to add fifty pounds of muscle.
At some point, the two Bobbies flex for the camera, and it’s all very traumatic. Kid Rock reminds me of my baby brother posing after accomplishing his first ever pull-up. The entire time Kid Rock with that stupid mustache nestled on his upper lip like a meth-riddled caterpillar has the smug smile of an idiot who just passed off an oregano cigarette for marijuana to a ten-year-old at the middle school playground.
The two push-ups and five seconds on the exercise bike really must have tuckered Kid Rock out because he’s ready to lounge in the hot tub, but it’s not to be. RFK fetches him for a spirited round of pickleball which I guess is what you play when you forget your Hackensack in the backseat of your mom’s car. I don’t know. I don’t understand the world anymore. Kid Rock wears his ball cap on backward because that’s the only way American Badasses know how to wear their head gear. I imagine pickleball is the reincarnation of shuffleboard. That’s what it looked like to me.
The end of the video takes place in a hot tub grotto, the sort of spot you might find on an Epstein Island. RFK still wears those fucking Wranglers which must be super uncomfortable by now. I walked through a thunderstorm in blue jeans one time. The tactility of wet denim clinging to skin I found unenjoyable, but RFK seems to be lustfully pursuing the sensation, taking Kid Rock along for the ride. They cap it all off by sharing glasses of milk, the liquid so white it could have only come from the breasts of Stephen Miller’s mother. We know it’s whole milk because the words flash on the screen in the same font utilized in the opening title screen of Takashi Miike’s Ichii the Killer.
The only way this video could have gotten any more ridiculous is if Peter Hegseth had poked his head in, representing the white Christian Nationalists who are known to enjoy catching a pump or two, now and then, as long as there are no women around.
I can’t imagine the conversation that led up to this, likely while they were both snorting cocaine off toilet seats. That’s the only way this could work.
“Hey, Bobbie.”
“Yes, Bobbie?”
“You wanna work out together? You know, to promote health and fitness.”
“Us? My distended, embattled liver disallows me to develop biceps…”
“It’ll be okay. Between your street cred as the preeminent white rapper from the mean streets of Detroit, and whatever the fuck I am, we’ve got a real chance to touch some hearts and maybe get everybody’s minds off these Epstein files.”
“You convinced me, Bobbie. Did you bring some gym clothes?”
“Gym clothes? You see I got my Wranglers on, don’t ya?”
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
