Rand Paul Exposes $1.6 Trillion in Reckless Government Waste: Bizarre Spending Revealed

Paul Riverbank, 12/24/2025Rand Paul exposes $1.6 trillion in bizarre federal waste, from drunk ferrets to mounting debt.

Opening the report, you’re confronted with a list that veers from the peculiar to the baffling, crafted with a kind of head-shaking disbelief. Over $5 million dedicated to feeding cocaine to dogs. Yes, again. Apparently, this is a recurring line item, as if the first round didn’t quite suffice. And then, in one of those paragraphs you reread to be sure you haven’t misjudged a comma, you’ll find more than $1 million tagged for teaching adolescent ferrets to binge drink before being euthanized—courtesy of the Department of Veterans Affairs.

Paul doesn’t just take aim at animal experiments, though those are certainly memorable. He points out that $40 million went to fund influencer and celebrity campaigns designed to boost COVID-19 vaccination rates among minority communities, well after vaccine mandates had mostly faded. Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands found their way overseas—to a climate change cartoon in Pakistan, of all places. Closer to home, millions were spent producing TikTok content that encourages Latino youth to steer clear of drugs, and nearly $2.5 million went toward efforts nudging Americans to make insects part of their regular fare.

For the seasoned observer of federal budgets, it’s the section on interest payments that delivers the sharpest statement. Approximately three-quarters of the “waste” Dr. Paul identifies stems not from these eccentric programs themselves, but from the interest the government pays on its vast and growing debt. As that debt careens toward the $40 trillion mark—accruing at the mind-boggling rate of $75,000 per second—the burden of simply servicing loans is dwarfing programmatic spending across the board.

It would be easy to laugh off the imagery of coked-up canines and hard-partying ferrets as nothing more than fodder for late-night TV. But for Paul, these examples are less about spectacle and more about pattern—a recurring motif in a government that struggles to draw the line between necessary expenditure and indulgent novelty.

The Festivus Report also zeroes in on the promises that shaped recent policy. Electric vehicle charging, for instance: $7.5 billion earmarked, but as of the time of writing, just 68 stations built nationwide. COVID relief, intended to shore up American schools, too often ended up underwriting hotel stays at Caesar’s Palace or renting out baseball stadiums and ice cream trucks—creative accounting at best, or a sign of priorities gone astray.

There’s a kind of tragic repetition in it all. Year after year, Paul chronicles similar projects, voices parallel frustrations, and yet the pace of spending doesn't falter. Washington raises eyebrows for a moment, then blinks. The machinery spins on.

Paul closes his report, as he often does, with an appeal to common sense—urging budget discipline, stricter evaluation, and a sincere reckoning with the nation’s fiscal future. But the underlying question lingers long after the headlines fade: in a government so often led by inertia, can any single accounting—no matter how glaring the details—tip the scales toward restraint?

Stories of drunken ferrets and influencer deals may dominate this year’s Festivus talking points, but the real issue is foundational: accountability and priorities in a country increasingly defined by debt. As long as Congress refuses to change course and the public’s outrage is fleeting, these annual grievances are bound to persist—and with them, the quiet erosion of fiscal discipline that Paul warns about, year after year.

Each December, with a flourish that’s half tradition and half warning, Senator Rand Paul drops his annual Festivus Report. This year’s edition reads less like a mere tally of government excess and more like an astonished ledger, unveiling a grand total: $1.63 trillion in alleged waste. For perspective, that’s not a typo or a rounding error—it’s a sum bigger than the economy of most nations, and it’s mostly, according to Paul, from interest piling up on the swelling national debt.Opening the report, you’re confronted with a list that veers from the peculiar to the baffling, crafted with a kind of head-shaking disbelief. Over $5 million dedicated to feeding cocaine to dogs. Yes, again. Apparently, this is a recurring line item, as if the first round didn’t quite suffice. And then, in one of those paragraphs you reread to be sure you haven’t misjudged a comma, you’ll find more than $1 million tagged for teaching adolescent ferrets to binge drink before being euthanized—courtesy of the Department of Veterans Affairs.Paul doesn’t just take aim at animal experiments, though those are certainly memorable. He points out that $40 million went to fund influencer and celebrity campaigns designed to boost COVID-19 vaccination rates among minority communities, well after vaccine mandates had mostly faded. Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands found their way overseas—to a climate change cartoon in Pakistan, of all places. Closer to home, millions were spent producing TikTok content that encourages Latino youth to steer clear of drugs, and nearly $2.5 million went toward efforts nudging Americans to make insects part of their regular fare.For the seasoned observer of federal budgets, it’s the section on interest payments that delivers the sharpest statement. Approximately three-quarters of the “waste” Dr. Paul identifies stems not from these eccentric programs themselves, but from the interest the government pays on its vast and growing debt. As that debt careens toward the $40 trillion mark—accruing at the mind-boggling rate of $75,000 per second—the burden of simply servicing loans is dwarfing programmatic spending across the board.It would be easy to laugh off the imagery of coked-up canines and hard-partying ferrets as nothing more than fodder for late-night TV. But for Paul, these examples are less about spectacle and more about pattern—a recurring motif in a government that struggles to draw the line between necessary expenditure and indulgent novelty.The Festivus Report also zeroes in on the promises that shaped recent policy. Electric vehicle charging, for instance: $7.5 billion earmarked, but as of the time of writing, just 68 stations built nationwide. COVID relief, intended to shore up American schools, too often ended up underwriting hotel stays at Caesar’s Palace or renting out baseball stadiums and ice cream trucks—creative accounting at best, or a sign of priorities gone astray.There’s a kind of tragic repetition in it all. Year after year, Paul chronicles similar projects, voices parallel frustrations, and yet the pace of spending doesn't falter. Washington raises eyebrows for a moment, then blinks. The machinery spins on.Paul closes his report, as he often does, with an appeal to common sense—urging budget discipline, stricter evaluation, and a sincere reckoning with the nation’s fiscal future. But the underlying question lingers long after the headlines fade: in a government so often led by inertia, can any single accounting—no matter how glaring the details—tip the scales toward restraint?Stories of drunken ferrets and influencer deals may dominate this year’s Festivus talking points, but the real issue is foundational: accountability and priorities in a country increasingly defined by debt. As long as Congress refuses to change course and the public’s outrage is fleeting, these annual grievances are bound to persist—and with them, the quiet erosion of fiscal discipline that Paul warns about, year after year.