Dr.Oz and Kennedy are as crooked as Trump or worse

 

 

Shame on Karoline Leavitt

A mother, a mouthpiece, and the choice to protect a predator

JoJoFromJerz

Dec 30, 2025

Shame on Karoline Leavitt.

Shame on her as a mother. Shame on her as a woman. Shame on her as a human being—someone who has cradled a child in her arms, who knows the trembling fragility of small bodies, the trust in wide, searching eyes. And yet she wakes up each morning and chooses, deliberately, to lie for a man who has hurt women and girls, who has mocked their pain, who has built his empire on cruelty and dares the world to look away.

She shields him, not out of ignorance, but out of calculation, out of allegiance, out of something colder than indifference. She knows. She knows what hands can do, what words can wound, what silence can destroy. And still, she stands beside him, mouth tight, eyes hard, betraying not just strangers, but every mother, every daughter, every child who ever looked to an adult for safety. The stench of her complicity is suffocating. The sound of her silence is a scream.

Just days ago, she announced that she’s pregnant with her second child. A baby girl.

And ever since I heard that, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

The thought keeps looping, tightening, pressing. How does a woman carry a baby girl into this world—feel her growing, feel her shift under her ribs, imagine her face and her softness and her future—and still wake up every morning prepared to lie for a man like this? How do you hold that contradiction in your body and not break?

I’m not asking this as a pundit or a partisan or someone playing politics from a distance. I’m asking it as a mother, from the place in my body where protection settled and never left. From the instinct that snaps you awake in the dark just to make sure your child is still breathing, that hums quietly under everything you do. Once that instinct takes hold, it rearranges you. It makes lying feel wrong in your bones. It makes pretending impossible. It won’t let you look away, even when looking hurts.

And that’s why I can’t look at her without disgust.

I’ve wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember, which probably sounds a little strange coming from someone who never had a mother of her own. I didn’t grow up wrapped in reliable tenderness—no steady arms to sink into, no affection I could trust would still be there in the morning. Instead, I learned early how to stay alert, how to read a room, how to sense when the air was about to change before anyone said a word. Comfort wasn’t promised; it was something I quietly learned to live without.

I didn’t know what it felt like to be soothed by a mother, to be softened by her presence, to have safety modeled in a way that let your nervous system finally unclench. What I knew instead was vigilance. Waiting. Anticipating. Making myself smaller so I wouldn’t need too much. And somewhere inside all of that, something else took root.

Even as a kid, long before I could’ve explained any of this, I carried a steady pull toward being the person who stayed, the person who didn’t disappear when things got hard or inconvenient or emotionally messy. I didn’t imagine motherhood as perfection or redemption. I felt it as interruption—as the chance to stop something painful midstream and decide it wouldn’t keep passing through me. I wanted to be the place where need wasn’t dangerous, where mistakes didn’t mean abandonment, where someone could rest without bracing.

I was very fortunate in one real way. I had an amazing father. He loved us fiercely. He showed up. He took exquisite care of us. I’m endlessly grateful for that. But he wasn’t my mother, and there are forms of nurture a father can’t approximate, no matter how devoted he is. There are ways tenderness settles into a child that only come from a mother’s presence—or her absence. That absence lived in me.

Motherhood didn’t soften me. It sharpened me. It honed my understanding of right and wrong until the edges were clean and unmistakable, stripped away the gray areas people retreat to when they don’t want to choose. It made lies louder, excuses thinner, euphemisms intolerable. It trained my attention on what matters at the deepest level. It taught me how narrow the distance is between safety and harm, how often danger arrives polished and persuasive, wearing charm or authority like a disguise, and how much devastation is caused not by monsters in the dark but by ordinary adults who decide that doing nothing is easier.

I have two kids. A son who’s sixteen now, watching everything even when he pretends not to. And a daughter who’s twelve, my youngest, still close enough to that tender edge where trust comes easily, where she assumes adults mean what they say and will do what’s right. Loving them rearranged my entire moral landscape. Certain compromises stopped being possible. Certain excuses stopped making sense.

When I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, I cried so hard during the ultrasound that the tech stopped and asked if I was going to be okay. I already knew how to love a child. I already knew how to protect one. What I didn’t know was how to be a mother to a girl, because I’d never known what it felt like to have one. I was terrified and overwhelmed with joy at the same time—scared of failing her at something I’d never been taught, and desperate to learn.

She came into this world with force. The day before my C-section, she flipped herself double-foot down like she already had opinions and no interest in waiting politely. That felt right. I’m raising her to be fierce and empathetic, kind and fearless, honest and human. I’m raising my son to understand that strength without accountability is hollow, that silence is a choice, that looking away doesn’t make you innocent. I’m raising them both to know the difference between what’s easy and what’s right.

And that’s why, when I look at Karoline Leavitt, I feel nothing but revulsion.

She knows. Oh, she knows exactly who Donald Trump is—a man who boasted, with the sick delight of the untouchable, that he could grab women by the vagina at will, because he was a star and that made him a god. She remembers his laughter—sharp, ugly—echoing across the airwaves as he dismissed it all as “locker room talk,” as if sexual assault were harmless banter, as if violation itself were just another joke for men to share, nothing more than a punchline carved into the flesh of women. She knows—don’t you dare doubt it—that this wasn’t a slip of the tongue. It was a confession, clear and deliberate, cast into the world without consequence.

She knows that women—brave, battered, trembling—came forward despite the molten cost. She knows what they risked, what it took to face a country hungry to tear them down. She knows a jury listened and heard—yes, heard—and found him liable for sexual abuse. That cannot be erased. She knows that after verdict and verdict, after truth ran bloody in the court, she dared to stand, lips pursed with self-righteousness, and tell the world: Do not believe women. Do not believe survivors. She wielded her voice—her shiny, borrowed authority—to crush the wounded, to shield the predator and keep his secrets safe.

She knows Trump’s name is dragged, again and again, through the filth and shadows beside Jeffrey Epstein—not by accident, not in passing, but day after day, year after year, in the same glittering rooms and on the same private planes with a man who traded children like cattle, who raped the young without pause. She knows—the truth howls in the wind—that credible allegations say Trump raped teenage girls. This isn’t rumor or partisan poison; it is a litany, a record, a procession of women and girls, standing one after another, their pain made public, only to be silenced, spat upon, told to swallow their screaming and disappear.

And still, knowing all of it—knowing the full, stinking scope of his violence, knowing she is carrying a baby girl—she lies. She shields. She lifts the shield to protect a man who destroys women, even as she dares to claim she guards the innocent. She has chosen. She has thrown her lot in with power, with corruption, with the monster himself—and in doing so, she has set flame to the future of every girl she pretends to serve.

Because she knows. She fucking knows. And she does it anyway.

They love to say they protect children. They say it loudly, sanctimoniously. And then they protect predators. They let children starve. They slash aid. They gut funding for pediatric cancer research while bragging about ballrooms and marble and chandeliers. They wrap cruelty in moral language and dare anyone to challenge them. They are not pro-life. That’s a lie.

She won’t disappear—though I suspect this pregnancy will be her soft exit, the cleanest way offstage without ever having to answer for what she’s done. A maternity leave that quietly becomes an escape hatch. A pause that turns into absolution. And then the rebrand will come. She’ll bleach the record, soften the edges, show up somewhere familiar and forgiving—probably on Fox—introduced as reasonable, maternal, patriotic. Just like Kayleigh McEnany. People will eat it up. They always do. They’ll call her devout. They’ll call her wholesome. They’ll pretend none of the damage ever happened.

But she won’t outrun her truth forever.

History is full of women like her.

Women who didn’t just stand near power, but made it palatable. Women who brushed blood off the lapels, who smiled for the cameras, who told the world to calm down, that you were imagining things, that the man in charge wasn’t that bad, that the cruelty had context, that the victims were exaggerating. Women who didn’t pull the trigger but made sure the trigger stayed clean, polished, respectable.

There was Leni Riefenstahl, who wrapped Hitler in light and myth and pageantry and spent the rest of her life pretending she’d only been an artist. There was Jiang Qing, who didn’t just enable Mao’s terror but helped choreograph it. There was Elena Ceaușescu, who ruled alongside her husband while the country starved. There was Imelda Marcos, who smiled in pearls while prisons filled and bodies disappeared.

These women didn’t wield knives. They softened the blade. They gave authoritarianism a human face. They told the world everything was normal while the damage spread quietly, efficiently, permanently.

I hope Karoline Leavitt’s baby girl is healthy. I hope she grows up believed, protected, and safe. I mean that.

But holding that hope doesn’t erase what her mother chose. Because history doesn’t forget women like her.

It records who knew better and chose power anyway. It records who stood guard over predators and called it loyalty. It records the lies, the silences, the moments when saying no would’ve cost something—and who decided instead that the cost belonged to someone else.

One day, her daughter will ask where her mother stood.

And the answer will already be written.

TWO IMPORTANT BARI WEISS ARTICLES FROM MARGARET SULLIVAN - THE ORIGINAL AND THEN HER REPLY TO DOGE DOUCHEBAG ELON MUSK

 

Bari Weiss yanking a 60 Minutes story is censorship by oligarchy

Margaret Sullivan

Weiss ought to cut her losses, green-light the piece, and try to start acting like an editor – not like a cog in the machine of authoritarian politics and oligarchy

Tue 23 Dec 2025 14.30 EST

One tries to give people the benefit of the doubt. But now, when it comes to Bari Weiss as the editor in chief of CBS News, there is no longer any doubt.

A broadcast-news neophyte, Weiss has no business in that exalted role. She proved that beyond any remaining doubt last weekend, pulling a powerful and important piece of journalism just days before it was due to air, charging that it wasn’t ready. Whatever her claims about the story’s supposed flaws, this looks like a clear case of censorship-by-editor to protect the interests of powerful, rich and influential people.

The tug-of-war over CNN shows how dysfunctional US media has become

 

The 60 Minutes piece – about the brutal conditions at an El Salvador prison where the Trump administration has sent Venezuelan migrants without due process – had already been thoroughly edited, fact-checked and sent through the network’s standards desk and its legal department. The story was promoted and scheduled, and trailers for it were getting millions of views.

I’m less bothered by the screw-ups in this situation – for example, the segment is already all over the internet as, essentially, a Canadian bootleg – than I am by her apparent willingness to use her position to protect the powerful and take care of business for the oligarchy. Which appears to be precisely what she was hired to do.

Journalism is supposed to “afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted”, but Weiss seems to have it backwards.

I can’t know what’s in her mind, of course, but I know her actions – her gaslighting about how it would be such a disservice to the public to publish this supposedly incomplete piece, and her ridiculous offer to provide a storied reporting staff with a couple of phone numbers of highly placed Trump officials.

Weiss insists that the story needs Trump administration comment before it can run.

But correspondent Sharyn Alfonsi has argued – eloquently and persuasively – that 60 Minutes repeatedly sought substantive comment and was turned down. In a memorable phrase, Alfonsi charges that if that’s an acceptable reason for spiking a story, it’s tantamount to giving the government a “kill switch” for any story they don’t like. Just refuse to comment, and it dies on the vine.

It is also nonsensical of Weiss to suggest – again, gaslighting – that the piece somehow lacked sufficient newsworthiness because other news organizations had reported on the prison earlier.

As if to counter this specious claim, a federal judge this week ordered the Trump administration to submit plans to return the migrants to the US or give them a hearing. This story is hardly old news.

What’s more, hearing directly from an abused migrant on camera, getting his description of the torture and seeing the images of inhumane treatment is striking and newsworthy. TV brings it home, quite literally.

Again, I don’t know what’s inside Weiss’s head – but I do know the context. In an unusual chain of command, Weiss reports directly to David Ellison, the son of Larry Ellison, a Trump buddy and one of the world’s richest people.

The Ellisons control CBS’s parent company, Paramount Skydance, which is making an aggressive effort to buy Warner Brothers Discovery. They would have to overcome an offer from Netflix that has already been accepted.

How? Well, federal regulators (and therefore Trump, who has expressed his interest) would, naturally, have some sway over who succeeds.

The Ellisons surely wouldn’t want to antagonize anyone at this critical moment. And notably, if Paramount prevails, they would control CNN, and could do there what they’re doing at CBS News – they could install new editorial leadership that’s more agreeable. Trump has complained bitterly for years about CNN; this matters to him.

Conveniently, there’s a blueprint available for how to cozy up to Trump by buckling. A few months ago, as an earlier Paramount merger was on the line, the company chose to settle a frivolous legal claim by Trump over 60 Minutes’ routine editing of a pre-election interview with Kamala Harris.

Stephen Colbert, you might recall, termed this a “big, fat bribe”. Then his late-night show was canceled, effective next spring. Ratings, don’t you know?

Bari Weiss is a weird and worrisome choice as top editor for CBS News

 

Trump received his settlement along with a side order of bragging rights, and a few weeks later, the Paramount merger went through. Yes, everybody got theirs – except the public and the CBS News staff.

As editor in chief, of course, Weiss has the power to make the decision she did. That comes with the job.

But it doesn’t make her decision right. It wasn’t. She’s damaged the institution she’s supposed to be the steward of and, far less importantly, hurt her own reputation. Inadvertently, she has also made sure that far more people are aware of this story, and the horrible underlying situation, than if the story had simply run as planned.

At this point, Weiss ought to cut her losses, green-light the piece, and try to start acting like an editor – not like a cog in the machine of authoritarian politics and oligarchy.

• Margaret Sullivan is a Guardian US columnist writing on media, politics and culture

 

 

 

Yes, Elon, seeking truth IS the most important goal of journalism

And giving a voice to vulnerable people matters, too

Margaret Sullivan

Dec 30, 2025

 

The famous saying is “never apologize, never explain.” I understand it’s supposed to promote keeping a stiff upper lip and being stoic, non-whiny and strong. But I’m not a fan of either part of that directive.

On the contrary, I think it’s wise to apologize when that’s warranted.

After critiquing Bari Weiss, I received a response from Elon Musk / Getty Images

 

As for explaining, I’d like to do a little of that here. No apologies, though, in this case. So here we go:

My editor at the GuardianUS asked me last week to opine on the controversy about Bari Weiss — the new editor in chief at CBS News — and her startling decision to withhold a well-vetted 60 Minutes story just before it was to be broadcast. As you may know, the story was about a brutal prison in El Salvador where the Trump administration has been sending Venezuelan migrants without due process.

It’s a powerful, disturbing segment, and even though it aired only in Canada, not in the US, you can probably find and watch it, as I did. The story makes clear the inhumane conditions at the prison, and the cruelty of sending migrants there. It certainly doesn’t reflect well on the Trump administration.

My column was critical of Weiss, who I believe has been installed as editor to move CBS News to the right, as her corporate bosses clearly want. Her direct boss is the ultra-rich David Ellison, son of Larry Ellison, who is one of the richest people on earth and a friend of Trump’s. Notably, CBS’s parent company, Paramount Skydance, is trying to buy Warner Bros. Discovery (which owns CNN) — and they probably need help from Trump World to get it done.

Weiss has no previous broadcast TV experience and isn’t really a news person, though she founded a successful opinion-based site, The Free Press, and is a former opinion editor at the New York Times. The fact that she’s the top editor at one of the most storied newsrooms in the U.S. says a lot about media in this moment.

My conclusion was that Weiss’s decision to keep this segment off the air was within her rights as editor, but was an unwise decision — and in fact, a form of censorship by oligarch.

It was a tough column, and I stand by what I said. You can read it here.

Afterwards, I posted it on social media — both on X (formerly Twitter, and owned by Elon Musk, of course) and on BlueSky. And in both places, I used a line from the column to pique interest; in retrospect, I might have made the wrong choice.

I wrote in the social-media posts: “Journalism is supposed to ‘afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted,’ but Bari Weiss seems to have it backwards.”

Soon after, Elon Musk chimed in.

“No, Marge, you’re supposed to tell the truth,” Musk tweeted to his millions of followers.

The thing is, Musk and I are in total agreement on that. Journalism’s first responsibility is to the truth and to the facts. No argument there.

Later, Fox News emailed me, saying they were doing a story on the criticism of my column that had followed Musk’s tweet, and asking for my response. I gave them one; if they did do a story, I never saw it. It was, after all, the day after Christmas.

That old expression about comforting the afflicted is supposed to remind us that a part of the journalistic mission is to give a voice to the voiceless and to hold powerful people and institutions accountable.

Powerful, rich people and big corporations don’t have a lot of trouble getting their message out, or getting the best legal representation, or addressing wrongs visited upon them. But the vulnerable person, by contrast, often has no voice. That certainly includes the migrant who’s being treated as the worst kind of criminal — as an animal — and thrown in a mega-max prison with no recourse and no help.

The 60 Minutes segment on the prison seemed to have that understanding as its foundation. It said, in effect, “Hey, Americans, here’s something that your government is doing to your fellow human beings and you ought to know about it.”

Did the story tell the truth and stick to the facts? Certainly. The segment had been stringently fact-checked, vetted and approved by the CBS News standards department and its legal department. It had been screened internally multiple times, and Bari Weiss had every opportunity to review it much earlier in the process. The segment had been scheduled, promoted, and approved at every level.

But then she decided it lacked sufficient on-camera commentary from top Trump officials such as Stephen Miller. The reporters and producers said they had asked for a substantive response from those officials and didn’t get that.

So Weiss pulled the story. It didn’t air as scheduled and it’s unclear when or if it will ever see the light of day.

Sharyn Alfonsi, the correspondent on the story, charged that Weiss’s decision was driven by politics, and that a policy of pulling stories for lack of comment was like giving those under journalistic scrutiny a “kill switch.”

As I said in my column, Bari Weiss gets to make these kinds of calls. She is, after all, the editor. I can’t know what was in her head but it’s my opinion that Alfonsi’s read is correct. The story would certainly irritate Trump World, and the Paramount Skydance honchos really don’t want that right now. Did the Ellisons order her to do what she did? I doubt it. It’s not necessary; it’s understood.

Do editors sometimes pull stories back because they lack sufficient reporting? Of course they do, and rightly so. I did that kind of thing myself occasionally when I was the top editor of a daily newspaper for 12 years. Ben Bradlee famously did the same when his hotshot Watergate reporters at the Washington Post had failed to nail down a story sufficiently.

But I don’t believe that was the motivation here.