The Tail of Two Megs. Both Asses.
Both Markel (opps) Sussex and Kelly are shamless and out of touch - they are laughing all the way to the bank. How lies and audacity can make you rich.
Megyn. Meghan. Say them aloud and you’ll hear what I mean—they’re the same two syllables in different spelling costumes, rather like the ladies themselves. One takes a Y because aggression requires typography. The other sticks with A-N, which looks softer on paper but don’t let that fool you.
They’re identical twins who’ve never met, these two. Both will do absolutely anything for money and a spotlight, and I do mean anything. The spelling hardly matters once you catch the scent of their ambition—it’s that overpowering.
Kelly started as a corporate lawyer, which lasted until television paid better. Then she was an objective journalist, until Fox partisan paid better. Then a moderate voice of reason, until NBC offered $69 million. Then back to conservative firebrand when the podcast rage economy called. At Fox she spent years insisting Santa was white—which apparently required clarification—before positioning herself as the adult when Trump attacked her. Not because she’d changed, but because victimhood photographs better than complicity.
The NBC deal was pure mercenary work. When the blackface remarks gave them an exit, she took $30 million to leave and scuttled straight back to the culture war that made her. Only now she’s meaner, because being paid thirty million to disappear and calling it “integrity” requires a certain shamelessness. She’ll say whatever keeps the podcast numbers up. Her entire career is a study in having no beliefs beyond “What advances Megyn Kelly?” The answer changes with the checks.
And the new Kelly? Well. She’s thinner now—GLP-1 thin, that particular gauntness that comes from pharmaceutical intervention rather than anything as pedestrian as exercise. The hair’s longer, courtesy of extensions that add exactly the sort of flowing, youth-signaling length that pairs so well with right-wing rage. There are fillers, of course—there are always fillers—and fake eyelashes that flutter with manufactured outrage. She’s become a very specific type of monster, the kind that gestates in the petri dish of race-baiting hate and emerges camera-ready. Think Kristi Noem, but with a podcast and more conspiracies to peddle.
It’s a look, this new incarnation. All that medical intervention and cosmetic enhancement in service of railing against wokeness and liberal excess. The irony of it—a woman who’s essentially rebuilt herself from the outside while screaming about authenticity and traditional values—is apparently lost on everyone, most especially her. But that’s rather the point, isn’t it? The packaging must be perfect when you’re selling poison. The prettier the vessel, the easier it goes down.
Markle used the same playbook with better lighting. Struggling actress became lifestyle guru became humanitarian became princess became California exile became whatever Paris Fashion Week required this week. Every step calculated, every truth adjusted to fit the moment’s needs.
That Fashion Week appearance? Absurdity. The woman who sued for privacy and lived in fear living in London was serving herself to French photographers like vol-au-vents, gliding down that walkway with a smile so pleased with itself you’d think she’d swallowed an entire aviary. Pure theater, staged within an inch of its life, every pause timed for maximum camera exposure. The point wasn’t fashion. The point was reminding everyone she still exists.
Her claim that she never researched Harry or the royals is one for the ages. This woman ran a lifestyle brand and navigated Hollywood for a decade, but we’re to believe she approached the most scrutinized family on earth like a blind date? She also claimed they’d married three days before the ceremony, which the marriage certificate and the Archbishop contradicted, but why let facts interfere with intimacy branding?
The Oprah interview was calculation in a pretty dress. Racism allegations—unverifiable, devastating. Mental health struggles—sympathetic, unchallengeable. That pregnancy reveal at the end? Strategic warfare with a baby bump. She didn’t leave the royals on principle. She left because they wouldn’t bend to her terms, and she could make more money selling her story than living it. Netflix, Spotify, Oprah—none of it was about privacy. It was cashing out while hot.
When Spotify canceled after she produced virtually nothing, she pivoted. When productions underwhelmed, she’ll pivot again. Fashion Week? Another pivot. The woman’s a weather vane tracking money and attention. No core beliefs, just endless willingness to be whatever sells.
Both discovered the same formula: Victimhood plus selective truth equals profit. Kelly plays casualty of cancel culture while forgetting her $30 million exit, her GLP-1 prescription, and her extension bill. Markle plays casualty of racist protocol while courting the exact media attention she claims destroyed her. They’re not different women on different paths. They’re the same woman running the same con from different area codes. Strip away the branding—and the fillers, and the extensions, and the carefully curated victim narratives—and you’ve got two people who’ll say anything, be anything, if it advances their interests.
Kelly positions her NBC failure as journalism destroyed by wokeness. Reality? She failed, got paid enormously to leave, and returned to partisan rage, only now she’s weaponized her appearance too. Every pharmaceutical enhancement, every cosmetic procedure, every fake eyelash is deployed in service of the performance. She’s thinner, blonder, more manufactured than ever, which makes her screeds about authenticity all the more grotesque. This is what the right-wing rage machine produces: women who’ve erased themselves physically while claiming to fight for truth. Kristi Noem understood this. Kelly learned it. When you’re selling hate, you’d better look good doing it.
Markle positions her exit as principle. Reality? She wanted to be royal her way—half in, half out, fully commercial—and when a thousand-year-old institution declined, she went nuclear. Now she’s in Paris working that runway with a smile that broadcasts exactly what she thinks of herself while claiming she wants to be left alone.
In modern media, you needn’t be consistent. Just compelling. Truth’s optional, integrity’s expensive, authenticity’s whatever sells. Kelly will say anything for podcast numbers while her body shrinks and her hair grows longer and her face grows tighter. Markle will rewrite any history for relevance. Fashion Week, documentaries, interviews—anywhere there’s a camera and a check, there’s Markle with that smile saying she knows exactly what she’s doing.
The striking thing isn’t their ambition—plenty of people are ambitious. It’s their conviction they’re heroes no matter how often they contradict themselves, how nakedly transactional their choices are. Kelly thinks she’s a truth-teller, not someone who switched teams twice for money and rebuilt her face for clicks. Markle thinks she’s speaking truth to power, not someone who chased power, failed to control it, and now profits from attacking it.
They’re not villains. Villains know they’re doing wrong. Our Megs are believers in their own mythology, however many times they must rewrite it. They sound the same because they are the same. The spelling’s just marketing, like Kelly’s new face and Markle’s victim narrative. The story’s identical: Whatever it takes. Whoever I need to be. Whatever I need to say. However I need to look. As long as the checks clear and the spotlight stays on.
Two syllables. One playbook. Infinite flexibility.
#winning_for_H
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