By Kitty Litter, Special to The Hollywood Beat
In the vast annals of American political theater and pop culture spectacle, few feuds have matched the operatic absurdity and staying power of the clash between Rosie O’Donnell and Donald J. Trump. It’s the Hatfields and McCoys of daytime talk shows and late-night tweetstorms. It’s Broadway belting versus boardroom bluster. It’s… frankly exhausting, but like a car crash outside a Dunkin’ Donuts, you can’t help but stare.
It all began in the innocent days of 2006, when Trump, then the kingpin of reality TV’s The Apprentice, decided to pardon the errant beauty queen Tara Conner, who had tested the limits of her Miss USA tiara with behavior more fit for a bachelorette party in Cabo. Rosie, then co-host of The View, dared to criticize the real estate mogul’s moral authority to act as national chaperone.
What followed was not a measured exchange of ideas but a Category 5 slap-fest of insults. O’Donnell likened Trump to a snake-oil salesman with “serial bad hair,” questioning his ethics, finances, and even his chin. Trump fired back in signature Trumpian fashion, calling Rosie “a real loser,” “a slob,” and “a woman out of control” — all before breakfast.
America, naturally, popped popcorn.
For years, their mutual animosity flared in the background like a pilot light in a leaky trailer. Trump would drop barbs in interviews and on Twitter like wedding rice at a shotgun ceremony. Rosie, never one to take the high road unless it led to a stage, would respond with all the fire and fury of a stand-up set at a truck stop.
Then came 2015. Trump descended that infamous escalator into presidential history, and Rosie — well, she became a permanent part of his stump speech. He would invoke her name as a kind of rhetorical palate cleanser, a one-size-fits-all punchline that guaranteed applause from any rally crowd. “Only Rosie O’Donnell,” he would say, as if her existence were proof enough of America’s need for walls, bans, and tax cuts for the already-cut.
For her part, Rosie morphed into a full-time Trump antagonist, part political commentator, part Twitter flamethrower. She called for his impeachment, suggested he be examined by a team of Navy psychiatrists, and once even retweeted a fan-made animation of Barron Trump in a horror-movie scenario — a move that even some allies winced at.
This feud wasn’t just personal — it became metaphysical. Rosie vs. Trump became code for blue vs. red, New York liberal snark vs. Queens-born bombast, brunch vs. steak well-done with ketchup. Theirs was not a disagreement but a cultural blood feud, etched into the zeitgeist alongside iPhones, Marvel movies, and the slow death of civility.
In the end, perhaps the feud was never really about the insults. Maybe it was performance art, a clash of two American archetypes: the loud, unapologetic comedian with a chip on her shoulder and a rescue dog on her lap, versus the loud, unapologetic mogul with a golden toilet and a Twitter ban.
In other words: peak United States of America.
As of press time, both parties had declined to comment. But let’s be real — just wait 20 minutes. Kitty Litter, over and way out. No, seriously.
