BREAKING: Trump joins wife Melania in calling on ABC to fire Jimmy Kimmel
Trump demands ABC fire Jimmy Kimmel ‘immediately’ after ‘expectant widow’ quip about Melania
President Trump called on ABC to fire Jimmy Kimmel on Monday after the comedian referred to Melania Trump as “an expectant widow” two days before Saturday’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner.
“Jimmy Kimmel should be immediately fired by Disney and ABC,” the president wrote in a post on Truth Social, echoing a call made by the first lady earlier in the day.
“Kimmel, who is in no way funny as attested to by his terrible Television Ratings, made a statement on his Show that is really shocking. He showed a fake video of the First Lady, Melania, and our son, Barron, like they were actually sitting in his studio, listening to him speak, which they weren’t, and never would be,” the president noted.
One of Washington, DC’s social events of the year, the 2026 White House Correspondents’ Dinner received outsize attention due to the president and first lady attending for the first time since they entered the White House.
Kimmel mocked the event on his show Thursday night, giving his own speech in which he said: “Our first lady, Melania, is here. Look at Melania, so beautiful. Mrs. Trump, you have a glow like an expectant widow.”
Melania Trump savagely criticized the late-night host earlier Monday, calling him a “coward” who “hides behind ABC because he knows the network will keep running cover to protect him.”
“Enough is enough,” the first lady added on X. “It is time for ABC to take a stand. How many times will ABC’s leadership enable Kimmel’s atrocious behavior at the expense of our community?”
The Trump administration launched an all-out assault on Kimmel and also went after Democratic lawmakers who were critical of the president, saying their rhetoric led to incidents like the one that took place Saturday night.
“Who, in their right mind, says a wife would be glowing over the potential murder of her beloved husband?” asked White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt on Monday. “And having experienced what I did with the first lady on Saturday night, I can tell you that she was anything but.”
Leavitt, who is nine months pregnant, was seated at the head table at Saturday night’s dinner, next to the first lady.
Both women had to crawl off stage as security escorted them — and the president — to safety.
Kimmel is facing severe backlash after Saturday’s attack on the gala dinner, in which a Secret Service agent suffered minor injuries after a gunman charged a checkpoint in a bid to kill President Trump and others in his administration.
Cole Allen, 31, was detained by authorities and was arraigned on multiple federal charges Monday afternoon in the DC federal court.
Monday marked the second time Trump has called for the comedian’s firing. The first was in September 2025, when Kimmel was taken off the air for a week following backlash from affiliates in the wake of his comments about conservative activist Charlie Kirk following his assassination.
The week-long suspension of “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” prompted widespread boycotts of Disney, with liberals accusing it of violating the First Amendment.
Kimmel failed to apologize upon his return to the air Sept. 23, but said: “It was never my intention to make light of a murder of a young man. I don’t think there’s anything funny about it.”
But President Trump fumed about ABC’s decision to give him his show back.
“I can’t believe ABC Fake News gave Jimmy Kimmel his job back,” he wrote in a Truth Social post at the time.
“The White House was told by ABC that his Show was cancelled! Something happened between then and now because his audience is GONE, and his ‘talent’ was never there.”
Savannah Guthrie Reveals She Will Never Speak to Her Sister Again After Disturbing Family Dinner Incident
Savannah Guthrie, the well-known television journalist and co-anchor of NBC’s Today show, has recently shared a deeply personal and emotional revelation about her family. In a candid interview, Savannah disclosed that she has made the heartbreaking decision to sever all communication with her sister. This drastic step came after Savannah witnessed her sister’s unacceptable treatment of their mother during what was supposed to be a meaningful family dinner. The incident has not only strained their sibling relationship but also brought to light the complexities of family loyalty and respect.
The Heartbreaking Dinner That Changed Everything
Family dinners are traditionally moments of connection, warmth, and shared memories. However, for Savannah Guthrie, the last dinner she shared with her sister was anything but that. According to Savannah, the evening was marred by her sister’s disrespectful and hurtful behavior towards their mother. The specifics of the confrontation have not been fully disclosed, but Savannah’s words paint a vivid picture of emotional turmoil and disappointment."
"Savannah expressed her profound disillusionment by stating, “She doesn’t deserve to be my mother’s daughter.” This powerful statement underscores the depth of her hurt and the seriousness of the situation. It reveals not only a personal betrayal but also a breach of familial respect that Savannah finds unforgivable. The incident has evidently left a lasting impact on her, prompting her to take a firm stand to protect her mother’s dignity and well-being.
Understanding the Impact of Family Conflicts on Personal Relationships
Family conflicts, especially those involving parents and siblings, can have far-reaching effects on personal relationships. Savannah Guthrie’s experience highlights how unresolved issues and disrespect can lead to permanent rifts. When a family member’s behavior crosses a line, it forces others to reevaluate their relationships and boundaries."
In Savannah’s case, her decision to cut ties with her sister is a protective measure. It reflects her commitment to safeguarding her mother from further emotional harm and maintaining her own mental and emotional health. This situation also sheds light on the importance of communication, empathy, and respect within families to prevent such painful divisions.
Moreover, Savannah’s story resonates with many who have faced similar challenges. It serves as a reminder that while family bonds are significant, they should not come at the expense of personal dignity and respect. Sometimes, difficult decisions are necessary to preserve one’s values and emotional well-being.
How Savannah Guthrie’s Story Can Inspire Others
Savannah Guthrie’s openness about her family struggles is a testament to her courage and authenticity. By sharing her story, she encourages others to confront their own family issues honestly and to prioritize their mental health. It also emphasizes that setting boundaries, even with close relatives, is a vital part of self-care.
Her experience can inspire individuals to seek support, whether through counseling, trusted friends, or support groups, when dealing with family conflicts. It also highlights the importance of standing up against disrespect and advocating for loved ones who may be vulnerable.
Moving Forward: Healing and Hope Beyond Family Strife
While Savannah Guthrie’s decision to cut off contact with her sister is undoubtedly painful, it also marks the beginning of a healing journey. Family conflicts, especially those involving deep emotional wounds, require time, patience, and sometimes professional help to resolve.
For Savannah, focusing on her mother’s well-being and nurturing positive relationships with other family members may provide solace and strength. It also opens the door for potential reconciliation in the future, should her sister choose to acknowledge her mistakes and make amends.
This story reminds us that family dynamics are complex and ever-changing. While some relationships may end or pause, others can grow stronger through understanding and forgiveness.
Conclusion
Savannah Guthrie’s revelation about her decision to never speak to her sister again after witnessing her mistreatment of their mother is a powerful example of the challenges many families face. It underscores the importance of respect, boundaries, and self-care in maintaining healthy relationships. If you or someone you know is struggling with family conflicts, remember that seeking help and setting boundaries can be crucial steps toward healing. Stay informed and empowered by following our updates on family dynamics and personal well-being.
I’ve Been An ER Doctor For 15 Years. When A Terrified 6-Year-Old Finally Opened His Mouth In My Trauma Bay.
"I’ve Been An ER Doctor For 15 Years. When A Terrified 6-Year-Old Finally Opened His Mouth In My Trauma Bay... What I Saw Hiding Inside Almost Made Me Black Out."
I’ve been a pediatric emergency room physician for over 15 years, but absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the sickening truth I found hiding inside a little boy's mouth on a rainy Tuesday night.
In my line of work, you think you’ve seen it all. You get used to the broken bones, the high fevers, the accidental swallowings of coins or Lego pieces.
You build a wall around your heart just to survive the shifts. But that wall crumbled to dust the second Tommy was wheeled through my doors.
It was 3:15 AM. The ER was mostly quiet, save for the rhythmic drumming of a heavy Seattle rainstorm against the reinforced glass windows.
I was on hour twelve of a fourteen-hour shift. My scrubs smelled like stale coffee and medical-grade bleach. I was sitting at the charting station, rubbing my tired eyes, just waiting for the clock to run out.
Then, the heavy red doors of the ambulance bay blew open.
The cold air rushed into the waiting area, followed instantly by the chaotic squeaking of gurney wheels.
"Trauma One! We need a bed in Trauma One!"
It was Rick, one of the veteran paramedics. I’ve known Rick for a decade. He’s a guy who has pulled people out of burning cars and train wrecks without breaking a sweat.
But tonight, Rick’s voice was shaking. His face was ashen.
I jumped out of my chair and sprinted toward the trauma bay. My lead nurse, Brenda, was already steps ahead of me, pulling on her blue latex gloves.
"What do we have?" I demanded, catching the gurney as they pushed it into the center of the brightly lit room.
"Six-year-old male. Brought in by his stepfather," Rick said, his breathing heavy. "Dispatched for a fall. The guy says the kid tripped and hit his face on a marble coffee table."
I looked down at the bed.
Sitting there was a little boy. He was so incredibly small. He wore a faded Spider-Man t-shirt that was easily three sizes too big for his frail frame.
His knees were pulled up to his chest. His tiny hands were gripping the metal side rails of the gurney so tightly that his knuckles were entirely white.
But it was his face that stopped me dead in my tracks.
His lips were sealed completely shut, clamped together with a terrifying amount of force. A thin, dark line of dried blood ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.
"Hey buddy," I said, keeping my voice as soft and calm as possible. "I'm Dr. Evans. You're in the hospital. You're safe now."
He didn't blink. He didn't nod.
His eyes were wide, dilated, and filled with a kind of raw, primal terror that you rarely see in a child. He looked like a trapped animal waiting for the trap to snap shut.
And he wasn't looking at me.
His eyes were darting frantically toward the glass doors of the trauma bay.
I followed his gaze. Standing just outside the room was a tall, heavily built man in a damp leather jacket. He was pacing back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck aggressively.
This had to be the stepfather.
Brenda moved in to attach the vitals monitor to the boy’s finger. The machine immediately started beeping at an alarming rate.
Heart rate: 165 beats per minute.
Blood pressure: sky high.
"He's panicking," Brenda whispered to me across the bed.
"I know," I muttered back.
I stepped closer to the boy. Let’s call him Tommy.
"Tommy, I know you're hurting right now," I said gently. "I just need to take a little look at your face, okay? I'm not going to do anything that hurts."
I reached out slowly, telegraphing my movements so I wouldn't startle him. My gloved fingers lightly brushed his jawline to check for swelling or fractures.
The moment my skin made contact with his cheek, Tommy violently threw his head back. A muffled, agonizing whimper escaped his closed lips.
He didn't open his mouth to cry. He kept his jaw locked tight, the muscles in his neck straining with the effort.
That was my first major red flag.
When kids are in pain, they scream. They cry. They open their mouths and wail. They don't clamp their mouths shut as if their life depends on it.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," I said, pulling my hands back immediately. "I won't touch. Just take deep breaths."
The doors to the bay slid open, and the heavy-set man in the leather jacket pushed his way into the room. The smell of stale cigarette smoke followed him.
"Look, doc, he's just being dramatic," the man said loudly, his tone annoyed rather than concerned. "He's a clumsy kid. He fell. Just give him some pain meds and let us go home. He's fine."
I turned to look at him. "Are you the stepfather?"
"Yeah. Greg," he said, avoiding eye contact with me. He kept staring at Tommy. "He just tripped. Right, Tommy? You just tripped."
Tommy didn't nod. He just stared at the blanket, his whole body trembling now.
"Greg," I said, my voice hardening just a fraction. "His heart rate is dangerously high and he's bleeding from the mouth. I need to do a full examination. I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside in the family room."
Greg crossed his arms, puffing out his chest. "I'm his guardian. I have a right to be here."
"Hospital policy," Brenda chimed in smoothly, stepping between Greg and the bed. "During initial trauma assessments, we need a clear space. Please, right this way."
Greg glared at Brenda, then shot a dark, warning look at Tommy.
"Don't cause trouble for the doctors, Tommy," Greg said. The words sounded normal, but the tone was laced with a chilling undercurrent.
With a heavy sigh, Greg turned and walked out of the room. Brenda hit the button to close the glass doors behind him, then subtly pulled the privacy blinds shut.
We were alone.
The moment the blinds closed, blocking Greg from view, Tommy’s shoulders dropped slightly. A heavy, shuddering breath hissed through his nose.
"He's gone, buddy," I said quietly. "It's just us in here. Me and Nurse Brenda."
Tommy looked at me. A single tear rolled down his cheek, cutting a clean line through the dried dirt on his face.
"Tommy, your stepdad said you hit your face on a table," I began. "But looking at your jaw, I don't see any bruising on the outside. The blood is coming from inside."
He kept staring at me. Pleading.
"I need you to open your mouth for me," I asked.
He furiously shook his head. No.
"I can't help you if I don't know what's bleeding," I reasoned. "Did you bite your tongue when you fell? Did you lose a tooth?"
He shook his head again. He raised his small, shaking hands and pointed at his throat.
"Your throat hurts?" Brenda asked gently.
Tommy nodded once.
"Okay. Well, I definitely need to look inside then," I said, pulling my penlight from my chest pocket.
Tommy backed up against the elevated head of the bed. He was shaking so hard the entire gurney was vibrating. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his mouth with both hands, physically holding his own jaw shut.
My stomach tied itself into a knot.
I’ve treated abused children before. I know the signs of fear. But this was different. This wasn't just fear of a needle or a doctor.
Tommy was terrified of what I was going to find.
"Tommy, look at me," I said, my voice dropping to a serious, commanding whisper.
He opened his tear-filled eyes.
"No one is going to hurt you in this room. Whatever is going on, I can fix it. But you have to trust me."
For a long, agonizing minute, the only sound in the room was the rapid beeping of the heart monitor and the rain hitting the roof.
Slowly, his tiny hands dropped from his face.
He took a deep breath through his nose. He looked at the closed blinds, then back to me.
His jaw muscles twitched.
With a look of absolute agony, Tommy slowly parted his lips.
The metallic smell of old blood immediately hit my nose.
I clicked on my penlight and leaned in, directing the bright white beam past his teeth and into the dark cavity of his mouth.
I expected to see a severe laceration. I expected to see a broken tooth pushed into the gums. I even prepared myself to see burns or signs of chemical ingestion.
I leaned in closer.
The light hit the back of his throat.
And my heart stopped beating in my chest.
I actually gasped out loud and stumbled a half-step backward, bumping into Brenda. My hand was shaking so badly the beam of the penlight darted wildly across the ceiling.
"Doctor?" Brenda asked, her voice tight with sudden alarm. "What is it?"
I couldn't speak. I couldn't form the words.
There was no medical condition on earth that could explain what I had just seen. There was no fall, no accident, no clumsy trip over a coffee table that could result in that.
Because lodged deep in the back of this 6-year-old boy's throat, anchored to his back molars with thick, industrial copper wire, was an object.
A deliberate, heavy, man-made object.
And it had a piece of paper stuffed inside it.
I stared at Tommy. The little boy just sat there, his mouth open, crying silently as the blood continued to pool on his tongue.
Someone had done this to him.
Someone had forced this into his mouth, wired it shut, and warned him never to open it.
And the worst part wasn't just the object itself.
It was what I realized the object was meant to do.
CHAPTER 2
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The bright trauma room suddenly felt impossibly small.
Tommy sat frozen on the hospital bed, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. The heart monitor beside him continued its frantic rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
I forced myself to take a slow breath.
"Brenda," I said quietly. "Close the room. No one comes in without my permission."
She looked at my face and immediately understood this wasn't a routine case.
"What is it?" she whispered.
I swallowed hard.
"Call hospital security."
Her eyes widened.
Then she nodded and reached for the phone.
Tommy watched us with desperate hope.
The kind of hope you only see in someone who has been terrified for far too long.
I crouched beside the bed.
"Tommy," I said softly, "I need you to know something."
He stared at me.
"You are safe right now."
His lower lip trembled.
"No matter who brought you here. No matter what they told you. Nobody is taking you out of this hospital tonight."
A fresh wave of tears rolled down his face.
It was the first sign that he believed me.
A minute later two hospital security officers arrived outside the room.
I stepped into the hallway.
Greg was pacing near the vending machines.
The moment he saw me, he straightened.
"What's taking so long?"
His voice carried irritation.
Not concern.
Not fear.
I had seen enough parents in emergency medicine to recognize the difference.
"Your stepson requires additional evaluation," I replied carefully.
Greg folded his arms.
"Then evaluate him."
"We are."
His eyes narrowed.
"Can I see him?"
"Not right now."
Something flashed across his face.
For a split second, anger replaced the mask.
Then it disappeared.
"Look, Doc," he said. "His mother is out of town. I'm the guardian. Whatever is happening, I need to know."
I stared at him.
Every instinct I had developed over fifteen years in pediatric emergency medicine was screaming at me.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
"I'll update you when we're finished," I said.
Before he could argue, I returned to the trauma bay.
The door locked behind me.
Inside, Brenda was helping Tommy sip a little water through a straw.
He looked exhausted.
Terrified.
But calmer.
I sat beside him.
"Tommy."
His eyes lifted.
"Can you tell me who put that object in your mouth?"
His entire body stiffened.
For a moment I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he slowly looked toward the closed door.
Toward where Greg had been standing.
My stomach dropped.
"Greg?" I asked.
Tommy squeezed his eyes shut.
One tiny nod.
The room went silent.
Brenda covered her mouth.
I felt ice crawl down my spine.
"Why?" she whispered.
Tommy began shaking again.
I gently touched his shoulder.
"You don't have to tell us everything right now."
He looked at me.
Then he whispered his first words since arriving.
"He said it was a secret."
His voice was hoarse.
Raw.
Like he hadn't spoken much in days.
"He said if I told anybody..." Tommy swallowed. "Mom would disappear."
My chest tightened.
Children don't invent fear like that.
Someone had taught it to them.
Carefully.
Repeatedly.
Deliberately.
Twenty minutes later, the pediatric surgeon arrived.
After reviewing the situation, he immediately agreed.
The object had to be removed in the operating room.
Safely.
Carefully.
And with law enforcement present.
Because whatever was hidden inside it clearly mattered to someone.
A lot.
While preparations were underway, a social worker named Karen arrived.
Karen had spent twenty years working child protection cases.
She sat beside Tommy and patiently earned his trust.
Eventually he began speaking in fragments.
Short sentences.
Pieces of a larger puzzle.
Greg had entered Tommy's life two years earlier.
At first everything seemed normal.
Then strange rules started appearing.
Tommy wasn't allowed to have friends.
Wasn't allowed to visit neighbors.
Wasn't allowed to answer questions from teachers.
If anyone asked about home, Greg always had an explanation ready.
The boy was shy.
Sensitive.
Imaginative.
Troubled.
Every warning sign was dismissed before anyone looked too closely.
Then, three weeks earlier, things changed.
Greg became nervous.
Constantly nervous.
He started receiving phone calls late at night.
Locking himself in the garage.
Arguing with strangers.
Tommy didn't understand what was happening.
Until one night.
He accidentally saw something.
Something Greg didn't want anyone to know.
Karen listened carefully.
"What did you see?"
Tommy hesitated.
Then he whispered two words.
"A basement."
The room fell silent.
"A basement?" Karen repeated.
Tommy nodded.
"There were people."
The words barely escaped his mouth.
"Lots of people."
My blood ran cold.
Karen exchanged a glance with me.
The same thought had occurred to both of us.
Human trafficking.
Illegal confinement.
Something criminal.
Something huge.
But we needed facts.
Not assumptions.
Hours later, shortly before dawn, Tommy was taken into surgery.
The operating room team worked with extraordinary care.
The object was successfully removed.
When it was finally placed inside an evidence container, everyone in the room stared.
It wasn't money.
It wasn't jewelry.
It wasn't drugs.
It was a USB flash drive.
A small black flash drive.
Wrapped in plastic.
Alongside it was a folded piece of paper.
The paper contained only a few handwritten words:
"If anything happens to me, look under the house."
Nobody knew what it meant.
Yet.
By then police detectives had arrived.
The flash drive was transferred directly into evidence custody.
Greg, meanwhile, was still waiting downstairs.
He had no idea the situation had changed.
Detectives approached him in the family lounge.
Within minutes they noticed inconsistencies in his statements.
His timeline shifted.
Details changed.
Simple questions produced contradictory answers.
Then came the phone call.
The flash drive had been examined.
And everything exploded.
The drive contained hundreds of files.
Photographs.
Financial records.
Property maps.
Names.
Dates.
Transactions.
Enough evidence to launch multiple criminal investigations.
Enough evidence to make federal authorities interested.
Enough evidence to explain exactly why someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep a six-year-old child silent.
Because Tommy wasn't supposed to survive long enough to tell anyone.
He had accidentally become a witness.
By sunrise, law enforcement officers were executing emergency search warrants.
Several locations connected to Greg were raided.
Including a rural property outside Seattle.
And underneath that property...
They found the basement.
Exactly where Tommy said it would be.
What investigators discovered there would dominate headlines for months.
But none of that mattered to me in that moment.
Because while dozens of officers were racing across the city, I was standing in the pediatric recovery room.
Tommy had just awakened from surgery.
The wires were gone.
The fear was still there.
But something else had appeared for the first time.
Relief.
I walked over to his bedside.
"How are you feeling, buddy?"
He blinked slowly.
"Tired."
I smiled.
"That's normal."
He looked around the room.
"Is Greg here?"
The question broke my heart.
Not because he wanted Greg.
But because he was still afraid.
I gently shook my head.
"No."
Tommy stared at me.
"He can't come here anymore."
For several seconds he didn't move.
Then his tiny shoulders relaxed.
The tension he'd been carrying seemed to drain away all at once.
And for the first time since he entered my emergency room, Tommy smiled.
It wasn't a big smile.
Just a small one.
But it was enough.
Enough to remind every doctor, nurse, paramedic, and social worker in that hospital why we do this job.
Because sometimes saving a life isn't stopping the bleeding.
Sometimes it isn't performing surgery.
Sometimes it's helping a frightened child understand that the nightmare is finally over.
As dawn broke over Seattle and the rain finally stopped, golden sunlight streamed through the hospital windows.
Tommy looked toward the light.
Then back at me.
"Dr. Evans?"
"Yeah, buddy?"
He smiled again.
"Thank you for believing me."
And in fifteen years of emergency medicine, I don't think I've ever heard words that meant more.
