Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Megyn Kelly can go fuck herself.
And I mean it in the fullest, ugliest, soul-deep motherfucking way a human throat can form. Clear your calendar, unplug your ring light, rehome your ficus, and go fuck yourself, Megyn. Do it with the force of every survivor who clawed their way out of silence while women like you held the door open for the men who hurt them and smiled like it was a career move.
Do it with the fury of every girl who was doubted, dissected, dismissed, and discarded by women who knew better and still chose relevance over decency. Go fuck yourself until the smug little smirk you’ve stapled to your stupid fucking face unsticks and exposes the hollow department-store mannequin beneath it.
Go fuck yourself with the dried-out Sharpie you’ve used for years to black out the parts of every story that made power look guilty. Every time you turned rape into rhetoric. Every time you scribbled over a girl’s trauma and called it “context.” That is the level we’re talking about.
She can go fuck herself so hard her highlights revolt, her extensions file for emancipation, and her podcast evaporates into a sad puff of collagen dust and expired sponsorship codes.
Because this week, this brittle, blow-dried bulldozer of basic bitchery looked straight into a camera and said, with her whole face:
“There’s a difference between a 15-year-old and a 5-year-old.”
Like she was ordering lunch. Like she was clarifying a dress code. Like she wasn’t casually categorizing child rape on a fucking scale of acceptability.
She wasn’t stammering. She wasn’t unsure. This wasn’t a slip. This was intent. She came to draw a line— not between good and evil, not between truth and lies, but between the rape she thinks she can justify and the rape she knows she can’t PR-spin. Between “technically too young” and “passable to a passerby.” Between a child with homework in her backpack and a child she assumes no one cares enough to defend.
And she did this while the Epstein files were blowing open like God hit “publish” on a hard drive from hell. While we were reading, in bold-print receipts, that Epstein bragged he could “end Trump” because Trump “knew about the girls.” While survivors steadied themselves for the names and the quotes and the emotional landmines tucked into every page. While the whole country got a front-row seat to just how aggressively the powerful form a human centipede the moment accountability knocks.
And Megyn Kelly looked at all that and thought, Now is my moment.
Because buried in those files was something so grotesquely ironic it curls the air:
“I have met some very bad people.”
“None as bad as Trump.”
“Not one decent cell in his body.”
This wasn’t from a pundit. Or a jilted ex.
This was Jeffrey Epstein.
The most infamous child trafficker on Earth.
The architect of the nightmare.
Staring at Donald Trump and calling him the worst man he ever knew.
And that is who Megyn Kelly runs interference for. That is the moral sewage she wants to drag “nuance” through. That is the hill she has chosen: a hill made of flight logs and the blood of girls no one protected when it mattered.
And she still doubled down.
“He liked 15-year-old girls… the very young teen types that could pass for even younger.”
Pass for younger. But not too young, right? Because in Megyn’s twisted little worldview, the horror of rape exists on a sliding scale. Five is bad. Fifteen is “complicated.” And anything above puberty falls into the “little inappropriate” column. As if statutory rape were a buffet where you can skip the eight-year-olds and say, “Oh, I’ll just have the barely-legals today, thanks.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
And since she wants to intellectualize this, let’s talk about who she’s describing.
A fifteen-year-old.
A child.
A kid who still leaves half her notebooks at home and thinks missing homework might ruin her life. A freshman with AP Bio at 8 a.m. and a curfew at 9. A girl who clips keychains to her lanyard because it makes her feel grown, who hides in the bathroom after gym because someone snickered when she slipped on the polished floor. She is soft-cheeked and unsure, still figuring out where she fits in her own body.
She is not “borderline.” She is not ambiguous. She is not “complex.”
She is a child. And children cannot consent. Not to grown men. Not to power. Not to danger. Not to anything Megyn Kelly is trying to rationalize.
I played with Barbies at fourteen. My daughter still tucks her dolls into bed. These girls are not “complicated.” They are not a philosophical thought experiment. They are children. And anyone shaving the edges off that truth is not offering nuance—they are offering cover. They are holding the flashlight for the men who hunt in the dark.
Megyn didn’t have to say a word. Silence was free. She could’ve just shut the fuck up. But she sat her Skelewhore ass down in front of a microphone, locked eyes with her camera, and chose to scale trauma for engagement.
Let me ask you, Megyn: whose daughter is it okay to rape at fifteen? Yours? Mine? Your neighbor’s? Is there a checklist? A vibe test?
You don’t get to redefine what a violator is to make the shadow-crawlers more palatable. It’s not a Golden Corral of crime. You don’t get to grab the “teen stuff” and skip the “too illegal” tray.
And for what? Downloads? Clicks? A little bump in her analytics?
She is not a journalist. She is not a mother in that moment. She is not even a human being engaged with humanity. She is a brand. A shell. A hand-delivered press kit of violation defense wrapped in a contour palette.
She is the reason men like this keep getting away with it. She is the gateway drug to victim-shaming. She is the polished grin on the face of rape culture’s morning show. She looked at the horrors of Epstein’s world, at the names that should shake this country, and thought, “Well, let’s not exaggerate.”
She is a Skeksis in stilettos. A vulture queen dressed for the cameras. The cold-blooded network ghoul of ratings-first morality. A human nondisclosure clause forged in lawyers’ sweat and power’s gratitude. A broadcast parasite engineered to speak only when it’s time to soften a violator’s silhouette and repaint cruelty as “context.”
And she does not deserve a platform. She deserves a full stop.
Let her record her next episode in a Walmart parking lot with a cracked phone and a tinfoil mic, shouting into a void that finally stopped listening. Let her fade. Let her melt into the grift sludge of media has-beens clinging to attention like dying ticks on the back of relevance.
Let her name become a punchline in every parable of betrayal. Let her legacy rot into a cautionary tale of what happens when a woman trades her own reflection for access and sells out every girl who might have once looked like her but had no one standing guard.
And to every survivor reading this:
I am sorry.
For what she said.
For what she excused.
For how loud her mic still is and how quiet yours was when it mattered.
Because the audacity of her saying “There’s a difference between a fifteen-year-old and a five-year-old” like she was clarifying a brunch menu is its own violence. She said it with the breezy confidence of someone who has never sat beside a survivor choking on a memory.
She would never say those words to a survivor’s face. She wouldn’t dare. Because she knows exactly what she would be met with. She knows that in the presence of real pain and real truth, her argument would snap clean in half, brittle from cowardice and hollow at its core.
And that fracture is the point.
She showed us who she is.
Again.
She loves to posture as some warrior for the children, screeching about pronouns and trans athletes like they’re the apocalypse, but the truth is simpler and uglier. Kids don’t need protection from vocabulary or other kids. They need protection from adults who twist their trauma into talking points, who grade their pain on a curve, who excuse the men who hurt them.
They need protection from people like her.
She exposed exactly what she is: the poison she trades in, the indecency, the hunger for relevance. She showed how quickly she’ll scrub the sins of powerful men if it buys her ten more minutes of attention. She would rather be notorious than decent, louder than right, a mouthpiece for the worst among us instead of a name that finally fades.
She doesn’t deserve to be taken seriously.
She needs to be erased from public discourse.
She needs to be shoved into the long shadow of her own shame.
And she really, really, REALLY needs to go fuck herself.

sasha wrote: ↑

Yesterday, 12:02 am

I don't think she actually believes that - I think she's just playing the good soldier, following the orders of Der Fuhrer, like the guards at Dachau & Buchenwald. Der Fuhrer says to gas them, we shall gas them. Whatever personal beliefs she may have are secondary to keeping His hands clean. Somehow that's even worse.