A Guided Tour of Career Suicide—Inside the Mind of Unhinged Bigot Leah Remini

For the few of us following the saga of Leah Remini’s self-destructive ways, the question periodically arises: How does one fall so far, yet manage to keep on falling—and with her foot firmly on the accelerator to boot? From being a regular on a sitcom, Remini has plummeted to professional bigot, inciter of hate crimes and finally, at this writing, to rapist defender and victim shamer—blaming the victims for the very crime perpetrated on them. She has indeed checked all the boxes for career suicide and personal perdition.

Why? How can anyone sink so low so fast?

The answer, Dear Reader, lies in Ms. Remini’s mind, in those dark recesses of thought that only she can see.

Until now.

This is no manufactured celluloid fantasy; this is Leah Remini’s repository of mental image pictures.

Thanks to a few well-placed emails, and calling in a favor or two, I have procured us—for today only—a tour of Leah Remini’s mind.

I must warn you, you will first need a pre-tour medical exam to ensure your stomach and vitals are in shape to withstand the rigors of a journey through the mind of an unhinged bigot, as well as a preparatory round of vaccinations against her particular strain of spleen.

All done? Excellent! Please remember we are not responsible for any lost or stolen items nor are we liable for any damage or trauma due to toxic posturing or flesh-eating hypocrisy experienced on this tour.

On that note, we have a packed itinerary, so please fasten your seat belts and keep your hands inside the bus at all times.

First on the agenda, let’s ride up a steep narrow dirt road that dead-ends at a creaky metal door. Entering, we find ourselves in a pitch-black narrow passageway. Grope your way along the rocky walls until they give way to thin air, and you will find that you are now in an immense chamber.

Shh! We need total silence. It’s about to start!

And there it is: a motion picture, but with a screen 360 degrees in circumference, enveloping us, making it impossible to avoid watching the “movie,” if you could call it that, as it assaults you—not just with sight and sound, but all senses and perceptions, plus emotions ranging from sniveling terror to the morbid fear of being found out. But this is no manufactured celluloid fantasy; this is Leah Remini’s repository of mental image pictures—a nightmare of actual events twisted into continual dread, blended with imagined horrors so real that please feel free to clutch one another for support.

There’s Remini flung into an ocean of sewage by women she had victim shamed for having been raped by her friend, the rapist Paul Haggis. And there she is again, now cowering before TV network execs who wave canceled bloodstained contracts. And yet again, now led out to the public square, to be torn to pieces by ravaging ex-podcast sponsors. “You positioned us with hate!” they chant over and over. And flying above it all, a terrible fire-breathing monster with the body of a T-Rex and the face of the rapist Paul Haggis, shrieking, “Like you said: I’M THE VICTIM! I’M THE VICTIM!”

All right. Let’s move on. (She can’t.)

Aah! It feels good to be outside again and to breathe some somewhat fresh air. Let’s have a picnic by that waterfall. Oh dear—that’s not a waterfall. It’s actually a 2,000-foot cascade of Leah Remini’s tweets, false police reports and propaganda all squishing into a bottomless pit of quicksand. Here, come sit by me on this ossified pus and I’ll open our lunches. (Sorry, there’s nothing to eat around here but crow, but I do have mustard.)

Next up: an excursion through Leah Remini’s Data Alteration Plant. 

Ok, are we done taking pictures? Great! Let’s continue. Dusk brings us to the red-light district of Leah Remini’s mind—a tangle of failed movies and cobwebbed sitcoms. (Try to avoid that seeping yellow liquid which I’d prefer not to name.) Next up: an excursion through Leah Remini’s Data Alteration Plant. Here we see thousands of facts about the Church of Scientology—its good works helping millions during the pandemic, its community outreach, its drug rehabilitation programs, its global Volunteer Minister program, its initiatives spreading literacy and morality along with Remini’s own documented success stories with the religion—all being processed, refined, slanted, reworded, sifted and then either discarded entirely or taken out of context—embroidered with bile, garnished with enmity and neatly wrapped in self-righteous outrage.

But I’ve saved the scariest part for last: We walk up this hill, then over that swinging footbridge above a stony precipice (don’t look down!). Now just around that corner, and there it is!

A castle—a glorious sight! Well, actually, no. If you look closer, you’ll see that it’s made entirely of vomit. But don’t look there. Let me instead draw your attention to the top of the castle wall, above the barbed wire and electric fencing, and you can see it: a colossal hologram of Leah Remini open-mouthed (no need for an umbrella—the drool is virtual) with the caption, “CAST ME IN SOMETHING! ANYTHING! PLEEEEEEEASE!”

And into the castle we go! And this is the part of the tour where we can possibly have a good time. Observe the mirrors in the room—not ordinary mirrors, but crazy-house mirrors. Notice how they make you look 10 feet tall and somehow, strangely noble? It’s how she likes to see herself.

Had enough fun with the mirrors? Please follow me through this door, and here we have another room. Yes, it’s magnificent. Yes, the walls and ceiling are all gold-embossed. A truly magnificent room, rivaling the halls of Versailles. You may be somewhat taken aback by this lush display in an otherwise sewage-steeped mind, but remember, that’s all it is: a display.

Let’s cross the room and approach the throne. Don’t be afraid. Yes, it looks empty, but look closer please, and you’ll see it’s not.

Come closer. You see that right in the center of the seat? It’s hard to spot it at first. See it? Something like a speck of dirt—no, larger—a cinder—a cinder that appears to be moving from side to side whimpering?

That’s right. That is Leah Remini, herself, her essence, her “I,” her soul, if you will, or what’s left of it. The shrinkage has been so swift and so complete that we’re lucky that she’s still—just barely—visible to the naked eye. The next tour group will be issued magnifying glasses, and the one after that, electron microscopes. Then, barring any sudden repentance, atonement or show of conscience whatsoever, this part of the tour will be closed off with yellow hazard tape marked, “THE PLACE WHERE REMINI’S SOUL ONCE LANGUISHED. NOTHING TO SEE HERE NOW.”

And that concludes our tour of Leah Remini’s mind. Thank you so much for joining us, and, of course, we welcome tips.

EDITOR’S NOTE: For those readers interested in further exploration of Leah Remini, BEWARE of scammers. One unscrupulous fraudster, for example, hawks a tour of Leah Remini’s heart. Total rip-off! Everyone knows she doesn’t have one.