No. of Recommendations: 10
How fucking dare she.
Karoline Leavitt has some goddamn nerve.
And I refuse, absolutely refuse, to sit here quietly while that self-righteous, state-paid, hollow-skulled propagandist — that Botoxed corpse in a body-con dress, that bloated monument to moral rot, that government-issued fucking gargoyle — slanders my neighbors, my friends, my peers, and my fellow countrymen.
Not today, Satan. Not today.
Karoline isn’t a press secretary. She’s a glossy, grinning meat puppet, a porcelain void full of perfume and panic. A mannequin animated by greed and vanity, programmed to smile while the country decays behind her. Picture a Barbie filled with battery acid instead of brains. That’s her: varnish over vacuum, lipstick over rot. Evil in pumps. Shamelessness with a blowout. A fluffer for predators. A whore for corruption. A carnival barker selling hate by the pound.
Imagine being slapped on the back while handed spoiled milk and told to smile. That puckered, sour, priggish expression, that is her resting face. Smug. Sneering. Sanctimonious. Scornful. Fork-tongued and venom-laced, she treats other people’s suffering like seasoning. She looks like she licked empathy off a spoon one time in college by mistake, called it peasant food, and went back to feeding on cruelty.
She doesn’t brief, she infects. Her voice is cold-pressed poison, bottled for broadcast and sold as news. She speaks like audacity made flesh—the gospel of rot in designer heels. She doesn’t talk; she hemorrhages contempt. Every word drips with moral decay dressed up as reason. She performs virtue like a pageant queen in hell, smiling as she burns what’s left of decency.
On Thursday, under the white-hot glare of TV lights and the counterfeit glow of patriotism, she looked straight into the camera and called tens of millions of Americans “Hamas terrorists, illegal aliens, and violent criminals.” Not a mistake. Not a misfire. A deliberate act of rhetorical arson. A dog whistle so loud it cracked glass. She knew exactly what she was doing and who she was aiming at.
The network gave her a microphone, and she wielded it like a weapon. Every word was shrapnel. Every syllable a spark, flaring bright in the wreckage she helped create. And when it landed, she smiled, not like someone who’d misspoken, but like someone savoring the sound of damage done.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here while she lies about me, about us, about every decent American who still gives a shit.
So let me make something crystal fucking clear to you, KKKaroline.
I am not a Hamas terrorist.
I am not a violent criminal.
I am not an undocumented immigrant.
I am an American.
I am a mother.
I am a citizen.
And I will not be fucking quiet.
Don’t you dare tell me that standing up to this festering empire of lies means I hate my country. Don’t you dare call me unpatriotic for refusing to worship corruption. Don’t you dare tell me that loving this country enough to fight for it makes me the enemy. That isn’t patriotism. That’s rot. That’s decay. That’s a sickness dressed in stars and stripes. That’s what happens when people sell their souls and start calling the emptiness “faith.”
If you can stand there in your counterfeit virtue, clutching a Bible you never open, and defend the man who turned our Capitol into a war zone, you don’t love this country. You love proximity to power. You love the smoke, the spectacle, the chance to stand in its afterglow and pretend your hands are clean. People died that day. Democracy was beaten and dragged across marble steps while opportunists smiled for the lens.
And yet, you still have the audacity to call me the enemy?
Fuck you.
Fuck you for thinking silence is loyalty.
Fuck you for confusing cruelty with strength.
And fuck that, fuck all of that, for pretending hate ever built anything worth saving.
I love this country enough to march for it. I love it enough to scream for it. I love it enough to put my body in the street and my name on petitions and my voice in the air until someone in power has to hear it. I love this country enough to fight for the idea of what it could still be.
Leavitt should resign. She should pack up her crosses, her canned talking points, and her taxpayer-funded sanctimony, and slither back to whatever mirror she practices her fake piety in front of. But she won’t. Shame is a language she never learned. Conscience is a virus she was born immune to. She’ll keep performing, like a ventriloquist dummy possessed by propaganda, because she mistakes volume for virtue. She’ll keep smirking because she thinks cruelty is charisma. She’ll keep lying because it’s the only thing that makes her feel real.
She isn’t a press secretary. She’s a sales rep for sin. A human infomercial for fascism in pearls. A Stepford succubus of spin who thinks “faith” is just a camera angle. She is what happens when power rewards obedience over honesty and gives a microphone to a mean girl with a Messiah complex.
Karoline, that hollow idol of deceit, venom-tongued mouthpiece for monsters, walking sermon in sin pretending to be salvation, can keep her microphone, her cross, her pearls, her fucking vanity. She has betrayed her country, her conscience, and her own child.
When you defend monsters, you become one. When you run cover for predators, you sell your fucking soul for a paycheck. When you polish the reputations of beasts, their filth becomes your perfume. You cannot lie for the devil and still expect the truth to know your name.
There is no redemption in that kind of work, only residue. You cannot wash it off with charity or confession or another fake prayer muttered before the red light of a camera. Every word she speaks poisons the air her own child will breathe.
And if she had even a shred of a soul left rattling around in that hollow chest of hers, she would resign. She would apologize. She would shut the fuck up and disappear. She would crawl back into the shadows where she belongs.
Alas.
And if she asks who wrote this essay, give her the answer she so often gives the press — “your mom.”
Your mom, KKKaroline.
Your fucking mom.
Bitch.
And with that, today’s song: (video of Electric Light Orchestra, Evil Woman)
I love you guys!
SEE YOU AT THE NO KINGS MARCHES!!
Stay safe out there and tell me where you marched and what your signs said!!
💙 Jo Jo from Jerz
