To everyone so eager to cancel someone for a tattoo they got at age 22, a drunk text, a selfie they took in the middle of a mental health crisis:
Show us your laptop.
Show us your iCloud.
Open your entire digital life to your worst enemy. No context. No filter. No explanation.
You won’t.
You won’t because you know what I know. Any one of us, frozen at our worst moment, photographed in our lowest hour, looks like a monster. Looks like a stranger. Looks like someone who deserves to be cast out.
That is not who we are.
My mom and baby sister were killed in a car accident when I was just a kid. Cancer took my brother Beau, my best friend and my rock. I battled alcoholism. I battled addiction. I chose the coward’s way out more times than I can count.
For years I believed the defining chapters of my life were written by tragedy, loss, and shame.
I no longer believe that.
Pain can shape us. Loss can humble us. Failures can leave scars that never fully fade. But none of them have the authority to define us.
And it sure as hell ain’t the critic that counts.
That authority belongs to us alone-the person in the arena.
Every setback presents a choice. Play the victim, or cut the bullshit and take ownership for who we become next.
Life does not determine our character. It reveals it.
Again and again we are asked the same question. When shit happens, what next?
We are not defined by what happened to us. We are not defined by the worst photo, the worst text, the worst tattoo, the worst night. We are defined by the person we choose to become. And by the courage to choose that person, every single day.
So before you reach for the gavel - show us your laptop.
You won’t.
The whole world saw mine. And I am still here. Still becoming. Still choosing. Still standing.
That is the only definition that matters.
More importantly though, today is also Saint Gertrude of Nivelles day.
Saint Gertrude is the patron saint of cats, cat lovers and gardeners.
Take extra naps and enjoy special treats to celebrate 🐈⬛🐈
🏆🏆Brilliant take down … from the real Miss Piggy
Dearest Donald,
It is moi, Miss Piggy, and I am writing because you have committed a sin so grotesque, so tasteless, so fundamentally idiotic that even the Muppet chickens gasped. You called a reporter—an intelligent, courageous, unflinching professional—“piggy.”
Let’s pause, darling.
Let’s breathe.
Let’s let the stupidity of that choice settle into the air like the unmistakable scent of a bargain-bin cologne worn by a man who thinks intimidation is a personality.
You were asked about the Epstein files. A serious question. A necessary question. A question every decent human with a pulse should want answered. And instead of behaving like anything resembling an adult, you snapped. You barked. You lashed out like a startled sewer rat cornered under a bridge with too much hairspray and not enough self-control.
You didn’t insult her.
You exposed yourself.
She stood there in the truth.
You stood there in panic.
She held the line.
You lost your mind.
And then—mon dieu—you invoked moi.
You said “piggy.”
At a woman who was doing her job with more professionalism in one sentence than you have shown in your entire, overcooked, chaotic lifetime.
There is ONE Piggy.
ONE.
And she does not answer to you.
I built that name with talent, beauty, star power, and a legendary karate chop feared by icons and monsters alike. You? You hurl it as an insult because a woman dared to speak to you without bowing first. How fragile you must be to crumble under the weight of a question delivered by someone infinitely stronger than you have ever been.
That reporter showed courage. She showed integrity. She showed the world what a real professional looks like. Meanwhile, you flailed like a collapsing parade float struggling to stay inflated. You weren’t “fighting back.” You weren’t “being tough.” You were simply terrified. Terrified of a woman, a microphone, and the truth you keep trying to stuff into a closet full of your old scandals.
Calling her “piggy” didn’t diminish her. It diminished you.
It made you look cheap.
It made you look weak.
It made you look like a coward thrashing in quicksand of your own making.
And let’s be clear: A man who calls a woman “piggy” because he cannot withstand a factual question is not strong. He is not clever. He is not bold.
He is a big, loud, pathetic problem. A problem the size of a collapsing casino.
A problem wrapped in insecurity, hairspray, and whatever the hell those suits are made of—polyester? denial? both?
So here is your final lesson from moi:
The reporter you tried to belittle stands taller today than you ever have.
She asked for truth.
You served up fear.
She did her job.
You embarrassed yourself.
She kept her dignity.
You lost yours somewhere between the plane door and your next tantrum.
My name is not your shield.
My title is not your insult.
You are not worthy to utter the word “Piggy” unless you are referring to your own reflection.
Consider this your warning, your education, and your verbal karate chop to the soul:
Do not use my name to attack a woman who is braver than you.
Do not weaponize my legacy to mask your cowardice.
And do not mistake your insecurity for strength.
You wanted to shame her.
Instead, you shamed yourself.
Furiously, fabulously, and forever out of your league,
Miss. Piggy
The Celebrity Traitors UK will make its United States debut on Peacock on Nov. 20 with all nine episodes being available to stream at once on the service. #CelebrityTraitors#TheTraitors