Look, Mom! No shoulders! No lats!
Patrick “no shoulders” Schwarzenegger—where to even begin with this glistening specimen of unearned privilege, this walking trust fund in human form, this Kennedy-adjacent nepo baby who dares to lecture the world from his ivory tower while the rest of us peasants scrape by. John Kennedy Jr was a better pilot than Patrick Schwarzenegger could ever be. That oughta tell you something right there.
Let’s start with the sheer gall of this kid popping off on social media, calling Trump’s post “disgusting and vile” over Rob Reiner’s tragic death. Who the hell asked you, Patrick? You’re a really bad actor who got your first big breaks because Daddy is Arrrrggghhhhhhhnold! and Mommy’s a Kennedy.
Your résumé reads like a casting director’s favor list: a modeling gig here, a cameo there, a role in a prestige HBO show because -surprise -your last name opens doors that stay welded shut for actual talent. You’ve never had to hustle a day in your life. You grew up in Brentwood mansions, private schools, vacations in Hyannis Port, surrounded by Secret Service remnants and family lore polished to a fraudulent shine. The closest you’ve come to struggle is when the yacht Wi-Fi was spotty.
And let’s be crystal clear about your mother, the “journalist.”
Maria Shriver, the aforementioned “journalist, hasn’t broken a real story since the invention of the telegraph. She parlayed Kennedy aura into cushy NBC gigs, reading teleprompters with that practiced Shriver gravitas, then “wrote” bestsellers that every honest person in publishing knows were ghosted to death. Slap a famous name on the cover, watch it rocket up the lists—journalism it ain’t. It’s brand maintenance. She’s a professional famous person, nothing more. At least the Gabor sisters were pretty.
But the real pond scum runs deeper, straight into that cursed Kennedy bloodstream you’re so proud to carry. Your great-grandfather Joe Kennedy built the family fortune allegedly bootlegging during Prohibition—rum-running gangster in a Brooks Brothers suit—then he cowardly played footsie with Nazis as ambassador while preaching isolationism. Your great-uncles? Jack and Bobby allegedly passed Marilyn Monroe around like a party favor, then stood by while she spiraled into the grave, overdosed under circumstances murky enough to fuel sixty years of conspiracy books. Ted drove a woman to her death at Chappaquiddick, hid it for a few days, and walked away with a suspended sentence and 40 years as a Senator because Kennedys don’t drown—they just leave others underwater.
The Kennedy brand is tragedy cosplay wrapped in entitlement: assassinations, overdoses, rapes, lobotomies, cover-ups, all buffed to a heroic sheen by sycophantic biographers and Hollywood. And you, Patrick, are the latest dull blade in that drawer, inheriting the arrogance without earning a single scar.
So spare us your six-word moralizing on X, you silver-spooned scold. You’ve never faced consequence, never built anything without a famous parent greasing the wheels, never known a world that didn’t bend to your bloodline. The rest of us see you clearly: a sub-mediocrity in designer clothes, lecturing from a pedestal built on bootleg whiskey, Hollywood affairs, and decades of unpunished privilege.
Sit down, shut up, and let the adults talk. The Kennedy era is over, and good riddance. Your tweet isn’t courage—it’s just another rich kid mistaking visibility for virtue. Disgusting and vile? Look in the mirror, junior. The view won’t improve.
