Megyn Kelly has reached a point where “controversial” doesn’t even describe the job anymore. Controversial is arguing about student loan forgiveness or whether pineapple belongs on pizza. Megyn Kelly is something closer to an outrage vending machine that only accepts human suffering as currency. You drop in a tragedy, she spits out a take so cold it could preserve meat.
Last month I wrote about her obsession with whiteness in a 2025 timeline—because it’s not a one-off, it’s a pattern. It’s a whole routine: the same grievance in a different outfit, the same resentment with new lighting. The plan again in 2026 was to check in again in July—midpoint—and again in December so there’s a full-year record of how often she circles back to whiteness, how often she frames herself as the victim of other people existing, and how consistently she avoids saying anything meaningful about “culture” or “ethnicity” unless it can be weaponized into a complaint.
That plan still stands. It’s just hard to keep a timeline on someone who treats the moral floor like a limbo bar. You document one grotesque moment, she immediately finds a way to go lower, like she’s got a loyalty program with hell and the tenth descent gets her a free smoothie. I swear, between ICE and Megyn Kelly, if I don’t publish an article immediately after I write it, one of them will do something unhinged. With ICE it’s usually something tragic. With Megyn Kelly, it’s almost always the same thing: complaining about white rank like it’s a besieged heritage site.
Case in point: right after the Super Bowl, Grandma Groyper went on Piers Morgan’s show via satellite and completely unraveled over Bad Bunny’s halftime performance. I’m watching it with my wife when she goes, “Did Susan already publish the Megyn Kelly article you wrote last week, babe? Because she might want you to add this crazy shit to it.” And she wasn’t wrong—Megyn couldn’t let a global pop moment pass without turning it into a grievance symposium. She went on about how millions of Americans don’t speak Spanish, which—credit where it’s due—she at least followed up by acknowledging that Puerto Ricans are Americans. Piers reminded her that the United States has no official language, and Megyn responded by warning that America must not “turn into the UK,” essentially lecturing a British man about how his country failed to protect whiteness against Muslims and should now serve as a cautionary tale. It was less political analysis and more a scolding, and even Piers looked like he was mentally debating whether this was still an interview or the beginning of a wellness check.
As soon as my head hit the pillow, the email alert on my phone went off—and sure enough, it was Lincoln Square’s editor, Susan Demas. I already knew what it was going to be about: my favorite white narcissist, because this lady doesn’t just talk about whiteness—she fetishizes it. She treats it like a personality, a credential, and a security blanket all at once. Honestly, I feel like if somebody made her a sandwich and the bread was pumpernickel instead of white, she’d stare at it like, “Why are you giving me this? Isn’t white bread more qualified?” And I say narcissist because calling her a supremacist just doesn’t feel as accurate anymore. I swear if she was dying of thirst and the choice was water or more whiteness, she’d pick more whiteness—and then complain the water was “woke.”
But before that appearance on Piers Morgan Uncensored, she’d already reminded everyone what her real superpower is: taking a human death and turning it into a personality flex. A couple of weeks earlier, it was her reaction to Alex Pretti—an ICU nurse who was killed in Minneapolis during an immigration enforcement operation. Footage circulated showing Pretti filming federal agents with his phone, getting tackled, restrained, and then shot. Reporting indicates he was legally carrying a handgun, and the situation has sparked national scrutiny, including a review and agents placed on administrative leave.
Megyn’s contribution to this moment was to announce, proudly, that she doesn’t feel sorry for him. Not “I’m conflicted.” Not “I don’t know enough.” Not even the usual coward’s refuge of “let’s wait for more facts.” She went straight to the flex: I don’t feel sorry.
That was performance — the kind built for clipping, sharing, and cashing out. She wasn’t trying to explain anything or add insight; she was trying to land a line that would light up the outrage machine and put her back at the center of the conversation.
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