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Learning Day: The OReilly Factor for Kids 2025 The Final Summoning
🕑 Added 2025-11-05 13:00:18 +0000 UTC
Welcome back to our recurring nightmare. The world is cloaked in shadow. The left wants to give your children a free lunch instead of making them earn it in the bauxite mines, and the school menu is cricket-flavored Transgenderfication Pills. Our top Nazis are not even safe from our bottom Nazis these days. The kids are alt-right. They need a firm, liver-spotted, guiding hand to return us to old-fashioned, quiet racist values.
Thankfully, a callous man once hunkered in his dressing room and dictated his thoughts on a brief outline of a book. He is your Uncle Bill. He is everyone’s Uncle Bill. The eternal Uncle Bill, flung out of the primordial ooze. To help craft this book another man, who, as far as we know, has never manhandled his wife, tried to turn those thoughts into sensible moral precepts for the youth. His name was Charles Flowers, and he belongs to the angels now even if he is not dead, I’m not googling that, you google that, I have a lot of work in front of me.
This is the final section of that book, The O’Reilly Factor for Kids. Time to bite down on our wallets and gaze one last time into the supercilious abyss of Bill O’Reilly’s medulla oblongata.
The Dumb Fuck On Health
In the course of this series I have surely used up my fair share of the adjectives blotchy, pasty, and bloated. And yet Bill O’Reilly is going to lecture you about health—this man, who looks like an eyewitness sketch of the lead suspect in a liver poisoning.
We meet our first batch of Eyewitness Teens and they are a PE Breakfast Club. The first boy is unhealthily athletic, the other a couch potato immune to the gym. There is a tale of two Amandas, one anorexic, the other bulimic. The 21st century looks bright for America.
Tyler has to spend 15% of his waking hours bonking other kids in the face with a wet volleyball before sunrise even though there’s no way Beverly Hills found a second high school to play against.
Look out, Too-Young Grandpa just remembered how idyllic his wildcat years were, by hickory. Life was better then, with fewer added chemicals in food, and more added chemicals in the senior lounge’s cigarette machine. You’re already healthier than Bill’s entire generation because your cardio is free of leaded gas fumes.
My God, he’s 55 on that cover, and his head already looks like a stale Circus Peanut in the microwave. The only time his neckbag stops wobbling is when it inflates as a mating signal to women whose careers depend on keeping him happy. I’m not saying we choose our faulty Irish chromosomes but Bill clucking at apple-cheeked youth about health shows the same hubris as me trying to give him lessons in how to suck all the air out of a hot woman’s funeral.
Right after admitting his ignorant luck, he expects you, a child, to design a health regimen he doubts you’ll keep. Your parents are to blame for not forbidding fun, but also being too weak to stop your laziness. Everyone’s culpable but no one’s at fault. Even chiding his teen self—demonstrably the only way O’Reilly can ever admit a flaw—he seems confused where to aim his scorn.
Otherwise…well, none of Bill’s moral murmurings in this book really constitute advice, but this section’s conclusions are surprisingly normal, specifically to frustrate me. Better move on to anecdotes. Bill saw a big woman once:
Boy, it must be great being Bill O’Reilly, and judging a weary mother for things you imagine about her. Bill doesn’t cook, so I guess he’s just at the supermarket to pick up divorced moms who need help with the groceries? (Produce aisle only.) If you don’t shake off the weight after growing two humans, Bill weaves a rich inner turmoil for you. He’s a storyteller, after all.
I refuse to believe Bill O’Reilly puts on a baggy grey tracksuit and lumbers 400 meters, because only Europeans and other perverts use metric. The saddest “On your left” in racing history would be getting lapped by Captain American Exceptionalism, except he only passes on the right.
The Dumb Fuck on Work
I figured it out. Bill’s audience of rule-following kids is real, and he is a farmer cultivating tomorrow’s crop of outraged fascists.
It’s easy to think your job is important when it earns millions, but on the other hand, do you know how many Friedberg/Seltzer parodies bedeviled society at this exact time? Social media has established that anyone can do Bill’s job of scolding strangers on mass media, not only for free, but at great personal cost of time and sanity.
Reading several newspapers is actually pretty easy if you’re just looking at the news and events section. God knows this man never read an opinions page when his bathroom mirror and his semi-erection tell him all he needs to think.
Bill’s need to believe his own Horatio Alger tale while simultaneously relating every time his parents stepped in to fight his teachers and coaches is exhausting. No one believed in him, but by hard work and willpower he created his own destiny to spite them all. If assholes had a creation myth, it would be this man, dreaming himself into existence.
Become O’Reilly? At this point I would rather he simply masturbate himself, which would be both faster and potentially lucrative to me in a court of law.
An interesting fact of life is that learning how to work will not guarantee you the job you want, which Bill immediately illustrates with the sweet example of diligently perfecting your basketball skills.
Ugh, this Calvinist dirtbag expounds the virtues of work and physical exertion while hating all the fun jobs like landscaping and housepainting. Like, sure, we would all like to be paid millions of dollars to sneer at children before eating free elephant steak in the Fox News executive crypt. But some of us are doing the important work of ranting about books from a quarter-century ago.
Bill, you just got done describing a three-hour work day that pays eight figures, you’re not here because you honed your ethic giving away someone else’s property to pretty girls. You’re here because even heroin addicts can find their get-go at that level. There are only a few jobs as sweet as his, and it’s weird that Bill thinks there are enough satisfying payoffs down the ladder of even a non-fictional meritocracy for everyone’s hard work to be rewarded without tons of luck.
Like why should I take advice from someone too stupid to realize he could have skipped all that hard work and succeeded anyway because God made him a colossal, gaping loudmouth at the perfect point in U.S. history?
The Dumb Fuck on Stereotypes
God made some people to inspire the world and others to brag about how they’re rocking the boat paddling to shore.
Also, this chapter disappoints. You’d really think Bill would have snuck a personal prejudice past Charles Flowers, like “Canadian women CANNOT frown, that’s just science.” But no. Speaking of which, Bill lists some very silly misconceptions his parents held, and they’re all very 1920s, except also there is The Black Death.
There is nothing here. Nothing! I’m surprised, too. This is Bill “M-Fing Iced Tea” O’Reilly—the sheer volume of bluster guarantees that at least one unrebuked “Then why is it okay to call it ChinaTOWN?” makes it to print. He’s the kind of guy who insists on hearing both sides of the debate between Martin Luther King and firehoses. He has a mind that hears about a friendly-fire police shooting and kneejerk calls the bulletproof vests “known troublemakers.” I guess let’s just move on from this chapter. In 2005 Americans could still agree everyone deserves equal treatment, and we’re all in this together because boogeymen want to kill us:
There it is! Bill had to invoke fear of the The Other to argue for unity. No notes for my bold, fresh piece of humanity. Look upon, my section about work, and despair.
The Dumb Fuck on Politics
I’m no teen, but that’s as concise a definition of politics as I’ve ever seen. Bill nails it, but makes the mistake of continuing. Goddammit, Bill O’Reilly finally discovered nuance, and it’s in the crumbling arena of American discourse. This will only make sense to Robert Evans’s gamemaster, but we’re moving at FTL speeds into The Dark Mechanicum vs. T’au, if the T’au were cursed to forever watch two of their number vote for Chaos.
Politics; they definitely need to exist. So get involved! This chapter is a dry fart in a gathering hurricane. Bill spends two pages telling you most kids suck, but since you bought his book, you are the type of good person who should Get Involved. Lies! The very last people who should go into politics are the self-envisioned moral force for good that the swamp needs. That’s how you get pogroms. Why do you think I write comedy—to make you laugh? Comedy is simply the most acceptable outlet to call for the blood of all who oppose me.
Intermission
In memoriam of Charlie Kirk, Bill O’Reilly’s titanic forehead will deflate to 240ppi for one minute.
The Dumb Fuck on Death
We come, as always, to death: the undefeated champion of the universe.
Nobody has all the answers, but if you give this philosopher a minute, he’ll figure it out—Bill O’Reilly, a man who has repeatedly gotten into all-day snarling matches with the upside-down Bill O’Reilly who lives in the pond behind his house.
This…what? Death confounds this man because it is hard to muddle the ultimate truth. I guess we have a barometer on insufferable, powerful white guys here. One of the funniest things about the freefall of 21st century life is how many rich fucks sincerely believe they can buy their way out of mortality, but O’Reilly looks Eternity in the eye.
I think it’s fitting that between my jokes and a pompous buffoon, the funniest, though not whitest, figure in our four-year journey is the Grim Reaper: top comic, cracks you up every time, even though you know what the punchline will be.
If you came here for abortion jokes, you’re on the wrong comedy site. This is pop culture, so we only joke about Bill’s broadcast culpability in the assassination of abortion doctors.
It’s just so Bill to finally show his human side after you’re entirely exasperated. This chapter’s sections are rippling with humane advice for personal travails. How am I supposed to hate this old man when I’m picturing him clutching an old dog to his breast and weeping without reservation? Why would I mock him as he advocates for strangers waging internal battles? How can I?
…Christ, what an obstructionist asshole.
The Dumb Fuck on God…?
After death we meet God, the sum of all that is. And—
In an ongoing theme this year, Bill argues cogently about becoming a fully formed person, and I am just baffled that maybe he wrote this book to accidentally raise himself up to maturity specifically to thwart me.
“I was a real knucklehellion,” he purrs. Later, he will ejaculate into a hotel hand towel as he tells his producer she has really great boobs. We’ve all been guilty of thinking with our dicks, but only Sexual Harassment Clown here is guilty of reminiscing with his sphincter.
Anyway, alter boys get tipped at weddings:
Bill braced a lot of best men for money or he’d stain their happiness, which actually shows he figured out Catholicism pretty well.
I can only look at this chapter fondly. It was a simpler time, those shrieking, smoldering days of terror following 9/11 and an illegal incursion into an oil-rich nation…a time when Christians kept their faith public but their desire to dictate yours private, and Oklahoma knew the Supreme Court wouldn’t let them replace history books with Bibles. A great time for Godliness.
BUT WHAT DO WE KNOW ABOUT BILL?
Bill “Shut Up” O’Reilly could face his maker and find God wanting after learning Black teenagers were also made in His image. He’s the only man who watches How the Grinch Stole Christmas and roots for the avalanche. A man who tried to get his own wife excommunicated from the church, and by extension, eternal life: a masterful fulfillment of the scorned man’s prayer: “If I can’t have you, no God can.”
Do you know how much you have to hate someone to shit-talk them to God? Bill O’Reilly is still out there in 2025, giving talks about how Catholic he is, despite snitching to the cosmic hall monitors that his enemy—in this case, his abused wife—must never be forgiven and see the face of God.
Bill’s devout Catholicism led to a privileged opportunity to meet the Pope, or as he called it, an opportunity to stuff some Italian cannoli. If I planned to cheat on my pregnant wife during my visit with God’s field agent, I would consider not bragging about it to my coworkers, but I guess I lack his abiding faith. Christ, what an asshole.
The Dumb Fuck on Helping Others
As Catholics, we are called to be men and women for others. Maybe this section will teach us how to weaponize that.
A strong start.
Okay, Marcus O’Reillus, I’ll play your game.
If I’ve spent four years excoriating this prick while he funneled all his wealth to the Levittown Boys’ Club for No-Violence on Minorities Only Hugs I shall simply scream. I would love nothing more in this world than to be the jackass while this humanitarian moved silently through the world, but Bill is incapable of silence, so more likely he’s funding journalism scholarships for busty 18-year-olds.
Bill’s friend was uncomfortable until she realized that humans are people too. It’s not really Bill’s story, but if he’s so comfortable around people who have Down’s Syndrome, why hasn’t he cheated on his wife with one? Woah! That was too much.
Oh my God…what if Bill O’Reilly is becoming the good person by passing all his bile onto me? Did the abyss gaze also? Is this a Freaky Friday?
And with that, Bill’s reach for the stars drags him out of the gutter to reach for the stars, and leave me ranting alone here, looking like the real lunatic.
Pinheads & Smart Operators
Time to take potshots!
Well, yeah, sure, but if you remove New Hampshire from that survey, it’s more like 1 in 27.
Maybe I’m getting old, or maybe Bill finally expunged the demon that lived within his voicebox, but here, at the end of all things, he is mainly talking sense about taking care of yourself and being kind to others. It would be a great hero’s triumph if he stopped here.
…Reader, when have you ever known Bill to stop talking? RELEASE THE SECOND-PRINTING CYBERKRAKEN!
The Dumb Fuck on Cyber Monsters
Tell me more about these Reginas George using technology to call Heather a skank, Bullyboy Billy.
I kind of think his biggest beef with cyberbullies is the democratization of new media creating too much competition for his broadcast. To his credit, he predicts the rise of cyberbullying. To his critique, it’s probably just the first thing he would have done at that age.
Oh my God. In what might be the most acceptable specimen of the phenomenon ever witnessed, Bill buffalos a girl much younger than he into talking about sex. He really is growing as a person. You guys: Bill wrote this book for himself.
And that is that. You have bullied, blustered, bragged, and bloviated your way to personal success. You now know to stop emailing Heather. You have proven the existence of God and conquered death. All the world sings to witness your ascent, my precious child of the main character. You are now a fully formed individual.
Or ARE you? Because guess what? I interviewed at Fox twice this year, presenting myself according to the teachings of their network face about how to get ahead. I learned two things: One—News Corp. is the only company in America with a savvy HR team, and two, they were not hiring an undercover subversive.
Did I want that job? Sincerely! Granted, for extremely sinister reasons, but there are two kinds of Americans now: those who realize we’re in a cold civil war, and Democrats. I did my best to get hired. There is a videotape added to my Palantir file of me humbly stating I’ve never been politically registered and probably won’t plant listening devices around the office. They asked repeatedly and pointedly if I was a believer in “the brand.” I could have lied! But Bill wouldn’t have wanted that. He believes in a fictional centrism that allows conservatives to pass for warmbloods.
Twice I did not get that job and a frighteningly smart woman who does not mind ICE kidnapping people coldly wished me good luck. Outrageous. Bill himself said the world owes middle-aged white men easy jobs! To think otherwise is to agree with the Loony Left that white Christians don’t run this country better than anyone. LUDICULOUSICROSITY!
I internalized Bill’s teachings better than anyone involved in production or consumption of this book. I did everything he said to succeed in life, but it didn’t even help me succeed where he wrote it. As Bill would say Abe Lincoln said…I studied…I waited…and watched my moment breeze by. Name a better test of how utterly wrong Bill O’Reilly than studying his guidebook for four years and still being unwelcome in his orcs’ den.
The unwritten lesson of Bill’s career is to be so in love with the sound of your own balls clapping against your knee that they announce your arrival at CPAC, and also probably not have two decades of writing on the web criticizing that network.
Rather, you must present as an indeflatable ego. Success means embodying the Profile of a Narcissist Asshole Century, and the rest of us are just dragged along for the ride, screaming warnings of protest as we claw futilely at the reins. It was a trap! We have corrupted ourselves for nothing, and he gets to present himself as reasonable at the end of all things. We are mad—MAD!—here in the 2020s, a bereft generation begging our parents not to ruin all that is, and in this chaos, the devil alone appears sane.
…Christ, what an asshole.
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Comments
FancyShark
"If you don't enjoy chiseling feces off the underside of a toilet seat, maybe the problem is you." Thanks, Bill!
Dylan Gilbert
Ah, remember when our right-wing pundits were had to at least pretend to be human? Good times.
