Oprah Winfrey



Wow, I guess that’s it. It’s hard to believe that after pouring my heart and soul into that show for 25 years, I’ll never tape another episode, sit down with another guest, or connect with another fan again. And thank fucking God for that, because I hated every moment of that piece-of-shit show.


Literally every single moment just made me want to die.

Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that my program was absolute garbage. It was 25 years of trite, predictable, emotionally manipulative drivel. I brought people on the show, I talked to them, I wanted to puke the entire time because of how stupid the whole thing was, and then, at the end of the day, it took everything in my power not to blow my own brains out. To the people who found my personality relatable, I say this: I’m a fucking billionaire, I don’t relate to you at all, and I can now say with complete impunity that I want all you pathetic losers to go fuck yourselves.


Every single show was a struggle. I was utterly disgusted by every person I sat next to on that oversized couch, and it took all I had to pretend I gave a shit about whatever Wynonna Judd had rattling around in her skull, or to act all spellbound when some frump looked marginally more presentable following a haircut from stylist-to-the-stars Ken Paves. I don’t know what people at home thought they were watching, but what they were actually looking at was a self-loathing woman trying her best not to have a total nervous breakdown before the next commercial break.

I did 4,561 episodes of The Oprah Winfrey Show. Now, imagine taking a pair of hedge clippers and cutting off your big toe 4,561 times, and that’s a fraction of the physical and mental anguish I was going though. That my name was associated with the whole thing made it that much more excruciating.


I hated them all: I hated Hugh Jackman. I hated Jim Carrey. I hated Dakota Fanning. I honestly couldn’t care less about injured war veterans, or about that one girl who survived genocide to attend Yale. The daughter whose dying mother made her taped messages before she died? I actually had to stop myself from rolling my eyes while the girl told me that story because of how stupid I thought the whole idea was. Lisa Marie Presley was absolutely disgusting, Miley Cyrus was a waste, Stevie Wonder bored me to death, and Brooke Shields annoyed the ever-living fuck out of me. And you know what? I hated Sidney Poitier most of all. Yeah, I get it. He’s black, I’m black. Big fucking deal.

Did you know Celine Dion was on my show 27 times? You want to try having the same conversation with Celine Dion 27 goddamn times?


The money was, well, unbelievable. Sure, I had to sit there and make believe that helping a bunch of housewives locate their G-spot was a thing that mattered to me, or go a full hour without roundhousing Suze Orman, but it was worth it. Do you know how poor I was growing up? Really, really poor. So, when things got tough on set, I could always sneak off and call my accountant, whom I would force to tell me how much money was in my bank account over and over and over again till I had the strength to make it through another heart-to-heart with a 13-year-old who was too young to be having sex.

You want the truth? I was glad the 13-year-old was having sex. Good for her. At least somebody on the set was having a little fun.


The truth is, it wasn’t in my nature to quit, but I wouldn’t have minded if I’d gotten fired. I actually thought that by giving away things like diamond watches and trips to Australia and cars—hundreds of cars—to my audience, I’d somehow bankrupt the show. Nope. Those turned out to be some of the most popular segments in television history. I couldn’t sabotage myself when I tried.

Just real fast before I forget: Rachael Ray is atrocious. Dr. Oz is the fucking worst. And the book club is stupid. I could literally give a flying fuck if more Americans read.


In any case, I’m finally out now, officially. When the director said “That’s a wrap” for the very last time, I took off my lavalier microphone, walked directly to my dressing room, didn’t talk to a single fucking person on my sycophantic staff, grabbed my coat, got into my limousine, and told my driver to get me the hell away from what has been the most humiliating time of my life.

You know what? I take back what I said earlier. This wasn’t worth the money. Nothing this demeaning is. If I could do it all over again, I would stay anonymous and dirt poor.