Picture this: Dr. Tom Shimabukuro, the CDC's Immunization Safety Office director, caught like a schoolboy clutching a crumpled note, stammering that the dog ate his homework. Except this isn't a missing maths assignment—it's potentially critical records about adverse Covid-19 vaccine reactions, and Senator Ron Johnson, the Wisconsin watchdog with a nose for trouble, isn't buying the excuse. In a scathing letter to the Attorney General, FBI Director, and HHS watchdog, Johnson has accused Shimabukuro of mishandling or even deleting files that could hold the key to understanding vaccine safety. It's a bureaucratic comedy of errors, but the punchline's grim: what's being hidden, and why does it feel like the dog's been fed a buffet of secrets?
The saga began last November when Johnson, ever the congressional knight tilting at windmills, politely asked HHS, the CDC, and the FDA to preserve all records tied to the development, safety, and efficacy of Covid-19 vaccines. By January, newly minted as chair of the Senate's Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, he sharpened his lance and fired off a subpoena for internal vaccine safety communications. That's when the plot thickened—HHS admitted they were struggling to find Shimabukuro's records, the very files he was responsible for, the ones that should exist. Johnson's aide, whispering to The Post, couldn't say exactly what's missing, but the implication is clear: something's gone AWOL, and it's not just a Post-it note.
Johnson's not playing games. His letter screams "highly concerning," painting Shimabukuro as a naughty pupil who might've tossed his homework into a digital shredder. He's demanding the FBI, DOJ, and HHS Inspector General dig into whether these records were deliberately erased to dodge congressional oversight or pesky FOIA requests. And he's waving the big stick—contempt of Congress, with its six-figure fines and up to a year in the slammer. Under the Federal Records Act, officials like Shimabukuro are supposed to guard documents like sacred texts, not treat them like last week's grocery list. The senator's ready to send the feds to check under Shimabukuro's desk, half-expecting to find a note saying, "Gone fishing—back never."
But here's where the farce gets juicy: Shimabukuro's not alone in this homework-heist ring. Johnson's tying him to another HHS rascal, Dr. David Morens of the NIH, whose inbox was mysteriously barren of Covid-19 emails. Morens, it turns out, was sneaking work chats to his Gmail like a kid passing notes in class, later claiming he couldn't recall if he hit delete. The House caught him cozying up to NIH's FOIA office for tips on dodging records requests—a masterclass in bureaucratic hide-and-seek. Johnson, sniffing a pattern, declared he always suspected Morens wasn't the lone evader. Now, with Shimabukuro's files playing Houdini, it's looking like HHS might be running a secret club called the Vanishing Files Society.
The stakes couldn't be higher. Johnson's calling for a full-blown probe into whether HHS officials "systemically mishandled, deleted, or destroyed" data about the pandemic and vaccines. He's been arm-wrestling the HHS watchdog for months, pushing for a deeper dive, especially after Morens' shenanigans. The Covid-19 vaccines, rushed out under Operation Warp Speed, were sold as miracles, but questions about side effects linger like an awkward guest. If Shimabukuro's records hold clues—say, about rare reactions or safety concerns—losing them isn't just sloppy; it's a betrayal of trust. The public deserves answers, not a shrug and a tale of a digital dog with a taste for sensitive files.
In this grand comedy, Shimabukuro's the star, fumbling his lines as Johnson plays the outraged principal, ready to hand out detention. The missing records are the plot twist nobody wanted, leaving us wondering: what's in those files? Evidence of oversight failures? Damning data? Or just a really boring PowerPoint? The senator's not laughing—he's demanding the grown-ups check the kennel, crack open the email servers, and find out if HHS is covering tracks or just terrible at filing. Until then, Shimabukuro's stuck in the hot seat, his "dog ate it" excuse falling flatter than a bad sitcom. Time to fess up, Doc, before the FBI starts sniffing around for that suspiciously well-fed pup!