How the Queen of Schlock Lectures on “Excess” While Hoarding Mansions, Fleecing Retail Queen Fans, and Fleeing to Fruit-Friendly Threads for Safe-Space Tantrums
Oh, Barbra Streisand—where do we even begin with this Yenta?
The woman who warbles like a cat caught in a garbage disposal has decided to grace us with her unsolicited wisdom on democracy’s demise, courtesy of Donald Trump’s White House facelift.
In a pearl-clutching post on Threads—that sad little echo chamber where liberals scurry to avoid Elon’s free-speech playground—she decries the ballroom renovations as “symbolic of what he has done to our democracy… It’s the perfect symbol of excess while people suffer.”
Cue the violins, because this 82-year-old has-been cosplaying as a moral oracle from her Malibu for ages. Nothing can ever make her happy. She lives to complain and be stupid.
Let’s pause for a moment to savor the irony here, shall we? Barbra, darling, you’re lecturing us about excess?
You, who charges up to $2,000 a pop for tickets where a horde of adoring, middle-aged men who fold clothes at Macy’s can’t afford you — yet somehow they stretch the credit card budget to line your pocket.
No hedge fund bros in your audience; they’re the very “people who suffer” you pretend to champion. But sure, tell us more about how a gilded ballroom at the White House is the root of all evil while your fans max out their credit cards to adore you when you don’t give a shit about them.
Hypocrisy doesn’t even begin to cover it—it’s a full-on hypocrisy tsunami, washing away whatever shreds of authenticity you had left after The Mirror Has Two Faces – which stunk and for which Lauren Bacall, another over-rated sack of s**t deserved to NOT win an Oscar.
And speaking of excess, let’s tally up the Streisand empire, shall we? We’re talking not one, not two, but a constellation of palatial estates that could house half of Hollywood’s B-listers.
There’s the 22-acre mega-mansion in Malibu, complete with its own private beach, infinity pools that could swallow a small yacht, and gardens manicured by an army of landscapers—because God forbid you lift a finger when there’s a democracy to save.
Then there’s the 62-acre spread in the Santa Ynez Valley, a faux-French chateau with vineyards, a lake, and enough guest cottages to billet a battalion of underpaid assistants.
Oh, and don’t forget the New York pied-à-terre, the Colorado ski chalet, and whatever other bolt-holes you’ve squirreled away in your portfolio of privilege. We’re not talking modest starter homes here, Babs; these are monuments to self-indulgence, dripping with the kind of opulence that makes Versailles look like a Motel 6.
You rake in millions from streaming royalties alone, not to mention the residuals from films – but not the ones you directed because you stink as a moviemaker and you go so far over budget that no investors will bankroll you.
Yet here you are, finger-wagging at Trump for sprucing up a public building that’s seen more wear and tear than your petrified forest vocal cords.
If excess is the enemy, why not give some of your money to the folks who will be off of SNAP in a few days?
So, anyway, Babs left Twitter (X) in favor of threads because she suddenly dislikes Elon Musk. How predictable was that? Nobody reads threads or BlueSky — NOBODY !!!
Elon builds rockets to Mars; Barbra builds grudges against billionaires who won’t genuflect. Who’s the real excess here—the guy refreshing the people’s house or the woman whose carbon footprint from private jets could melt the polar ice caps she pretends to care about?
And let’s not gloss over the politics, because Barbra’s sanctimonious screeching is as much a part of her brand as that infamous nose.
Remember her 2016 meltdown, wailing about Trump like he personally canceled her EGOT?
Fast-forward to now, and she’s still at it, albeit in diapers, equating a room redo to fascism because, well, why not? It’s easier than admitting that her own career is a relic of a bygone era, propped up by nostalgia and nepotism. (Shoutout to her son Jason Gould, who’s been riding those coattails longer than most marriages last.)
The temerity, as you put it, is staggering. Barbra Streisand, who once sued a land management erosion photographer for taking a picture of a corner of her house (because privacy for thee, but not for the peasants), now postures as the voice of the suffering masses.
In the end, Barbra’s not destroying democracy; she’s just destroying our patience. Her Threads tirade isn’t activism; it’s attention-seeking from a woman whose relevance peaked with leg warmers.
If she really wants to symbolize excess’s end, she could start by retiring gracefully—sell a mansion, refund those $2,000 tickets, and let the gays and old ladies from Long Island find joy in something less soul-crushing than her encore of “The Way We Were.” Until then, she’ll remain what she is: a hypocritical harpy, yowling from her throne of self-importance.
