Greg Gutfeld EXP0SES Joy Behar’s Hypocrisy on LIVE TV

What happens when television’s self-appointed queen of daytime discovers she has become the punchline of late night? What happens when 30 years of unchallenged monologues crash into the brick wall of comedic precision? What happens when the hunter realizes too late that she was never the predator at all?

“Joy Behar calls her a 10,” Greg Gutfeld announced, his voice dripping with theatrical disbelief. “I mean, how dare she objectify a woman with a sexist rating system?” He paused, letting the setup breathe. “But it’s such a typical thing from a 1.5.”

The studio erupted. Tyrus sat beside him, stone-faced as a sphinx, yet somehow radiating the quiet satisfaction of a man watching karma finally clock in for its shift. The ammunition had been loaded. The siege had begun.

“Well said,” Tyrus offered, his voice carrying the weight of a judge delivering a verdict.

Then came the kill shot: “The motive stink worse than Joy Behar’s jog bra.” Greg’s eyebrows rose with mock innocence. “I mean, assuming she jogs.” The pause stretched like a rubber band pulled to its limit. “Oh, wait. There she is.” On screen flashed an image that needed no explanation. The audience howled. The comparison had been drawn. The battle lines had been etched in fire.

“She has a point,” Greg continued, pivoting with the grace of a matador. “Maybe I am obsessed. But some people are obsessed with Bigfoot and they don’t get to see him on TV every afternoon.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And if they did, could they tell the two apart? I don’t know.” The shrug that followed was a masterclass in comedic timing.

Everything exploded on screen in the most chaotic, beautiful way imaginable. Joy Behar had believed, truly believed that she held the moment in her manicured hands, that the narrative belonged to her, that the throne was secure. But Greg Gutfeld and Tyrus had other plans. They turned her entire empire upside down with humor so sharp it could slice through bulletproof glass, so precise it felt like surgery performed with a scalpel dipped in acid.

And even as Joy maintained her confident expression 3,000 miles away, Greg kept firing joke after joke after joke. Each one landing like a guided missile, finding its target in the dark. Tyrus remained perfectly calm throughout, dropping one-liners that hit harder than a freight train at full speed. No yelling, no theatrics, just quiet devastation delivered with the energy of a man ordering coffee. The way Joy’s carefully constructed image crumbled without her even being present to defend it, created pure, unforgettable chaos. A roast battle crashing into a reality show meltdown. All packed into one unbelievable moment of televised destruction.

“It’s not even that,” Tyrus observed, his voice steady as bedrock. “The View, ‘You don’t need to find Trumpers. You need to fire your race baiters.’” The words landed like stones thrown into still water. Ripples spreading outward. Truth echoing through the studio. “You need to fire the racists,” he continued, building momentum. “You’ve had people—You had McCain on there. You’ve had people before and you ran them off.”

Greg nodded, the picture of agreement. “So the racist ones who want to stick to this Whoopy and Sunny and the—” He paused, pretending to search his memory. “Was it B. Middler? What’s her name?”

Laughter cascaded through the studio like an avalanche. Tyrus delivered the finishing blow without changing his expression. “The broke ass B. Midler. Fire them and bring people in. Maybe you could get McCain to come back. She was a Republican,” Tyrus added. “But every show and every break, she was nearly in tears because she was being—” The sentence didn’t need finishing. Everyone knew. Everyone remembered.

Joy Behar had been sitting on her television throne for decades, carrying herself like nothing could shake her foundation, like nothing could penetrate her fortress of self-satisfaction. Then Greg Gutfeld and Tyrus stepped in, armed with sharp jokes and calm, confident energy that hit harder than she had ever expected, harder than she had ever prepared for, harder than her teleprompter could deflect. In just a few devastating seconds, her whole queen of the set image crumbled on screen. She stared in pure shock from her studio, watching her big dramatic reign slip away right before everyone’s eyes, including her own.

“Joy Behar accused Elon Musk of being pro-apartheid,” Greg announced, letting the accusation hang in the air, “but then begged him afterwards not to sue.” He paused for effect. Timing immaculate. “Musk’s lawyers have yet to comment because they’re still checking to see if it’s legal to sue a cow.” The studio exploded.

“Shots fired!” Someone called out.

Greg spread his hands innocently. “It’s a legal question. I don’t know why it’s so upsetting. I don’t make the rules in this country.” This whole moment wasn’t some loud shouting match or wild on stage argument. That would have been too easy, too expected, too survivable. No, this was colder, sharper, more surgical. Greg and Tyrus quietly took Joy apart, piece by piece, with jokes so precise they felt like they could slice straight through the television screen itself. The shocking part, she wasn’t even there to defend herself, which somehow made the whole thing feel even harsher, like watching someone lose a battle they didn’t even show up for. A trial conducted in absentia. A verdict delivered to an empty chair.

By the end of it all, there was absolutely no doubt. Her once steady throne was shaking like never before. The foundations were cracking. The walls were crumbling. And the queen had no idea the castle was already on fire.

“Now to some news,” Greg announced with mock gravity. “The feral monsters of The View say they’ve never heard of you know who.” He gestured to himself. “True story. The show that makes mornings hell claims that my name doesn’t ring a bell.” His smile widened into something dangerous. “It’s time for our View on The View.”

“Yeah. The witch’s coven finally shows me some loving,” Greg continued, relishing every syllable. “Yesterday on The View, yours truly was the subject of conversation. Apparently, the broads have no idea who I am.” He paused, eyebrows rising, “Or so they say.”

The clip rolled. There sat Joy, performing confusion like a community theater actress attempting Shakespeare. “Said that Gutfeld talks about you all the time,” a producer prompted. Joy’s response came wrapped in theatrical ignorance. “Who is he? I don’t—I don’t watch the show. Never heard of him.” Then the tell, the crack in the facade. “I guess he’s just obsessed with me.”

Greg was in full savage mode now, doing exactly what he does best, tearing apart the wild behavior of certain television hosts without mercy, without hesitation, without a single ounce of restraint. He painted a picture of those daytime stars who pretend to be wise while sipping fancy wine and acting like they understand real life struggles, like knowing the actual price of gas or milk or bread. It fit Joy’s comfort zone so perfectly that it was impossible not to notice. His jokes were so sharp and precise that you could almost hear them slicing straight through her polished TV image with every hilarious line he dropped.

“No, no, no,” Greg laughed. “Next, Joy’s going to say she’s never heard of carbs.” The studio roared. “Seriously, her denial of knowing me is as believable as red hair on her head. But obsession,” he clutched his chest in mock offense. “I mean, come on, Joy? Where would you even get that idea?”

The montage began. Clip after clip after clip of Greg mentioning Joy. “Like Joy Behar’s face, it’s looking worse and worse by the day.” Another clip. “…more full of crap than Joy Behar after a night of scotch and Taco Bell.” And another. “…her being named Joy is like me being named ugly.” The hits kept coming. Relentless as artillery fire.

“Joy wasn’t there on the show. Apparently, Mondays are her days off when she feeds in the pasture.” The final clip landed like a knockout punch. “It now smells like a humid day inside Joy Behar’s…” The sentence cut off. It didn’t need to finish. The imagination did the rest.

Tyrus came in with his calm, cold energy the way he always does. No yelling, no dramatic behavior, just that steady, chill vibe paired with jokes that hit like silent bullets, finding their marks in the dark. While Joy was still performing for her cheering crowd 3,000 miles away, Tyrus had that look on his face. That look that basically said, “Are we seriously still buying what she’s selling?” The wild part, he never even said her name. Yet, everyone instantly knew exactly who he was talking about. The whole thing became a flawless takedown that didn’t even feel like a joke, just Truth wearing a comedian’s mask. Poor Joy became the unexpected punchline of a show she wasn’t even invited to be part of. A ghost being roasted at her own funeral. A queen dethroned in a kingdom she didn’t know existed.

“No, this is what elitists do,” Tyrus observed. His voice carrying the weight of verdict. “If you don’t know who someone is, how did you know to automatically hate him?” The question hung in the air like an indictment, waiting for a signature.

Greg nodded slowly, appreciating the precision of the strike. “That’s how fake and full of it she is.”

Tyrus continued, “Gutfilled. Never heard of him. Don’t like him. Why? Because—because why?” He mimicked a child’s voice. “That’s why. I just turned into one of my kids.” “Because why? Because I don’t know who he is. Never heard of him in my entire life. But why? Because I don’t know.” The mockery was devastating precisely because it was accurate. The Emperor’s new clothes had been called out. The Wizard’s Curtain had been pulled back. The throne was revealed to be made of cardboard and self-delusion.

“…because they are the last TV show to talk about high turnover,” Tyrus added, shifting targets with surgical precision. “We’ve been rolling three steady for a long time. We don’t take breaks in the commercial to get away from each other.”

“Well,” Greg interjected with a grin. “That’s what the drinking’s for.”

“How did—” Tyrus let the question build. “Meghan McCain. How’d that go, Rosie O’Donnell? Any of these previous fellow employees? Because one of the things they said was that no one walks away from money.” His eyebrows rose. “They got people running away from that show like it’s on fire.”

This was where Greg Gutfeld truly showed his genius. He didn’t argue. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t engage in the screaming matches that Joy’s format demanded. He simply laughed that quiet, confident laugh, and used perfect timing and sharp expressions to pull apart everything Joy had been holding on to for years. Every defense, every pretense, every carefully constructed illusion. The whole moment became pure comedy that tore down her polished image without Greg even breaking a sweat. And the funniest part, she still believes she’s winning. Like a captain smiling proudly on a sinking ship, Joy Behar stood at the helm of The View while Greg and Tyrus simply stood back, letting the truth unravel everything all on its own. No intervention required, just observation.

“The problem is you have to go after the racist people,” Tyrus stated, his voice carrying conviction without volume. “And if the CEO goes, you know what? I’m not going to allow a woman or man on my show that will go after white America and talk about them like dogs that doesn’t represent our ideals or values for anyone.” He leaned forward slightly. “Get rid of those people and this will clear up real quick. You have to actually look in the mirror and clean up your own backyard. Get the racist people out because that’s who you allowed in.”

The indictment was complete. The evidence had been presented. The jury—millions watching at home—had reached their verdict long before the closing arguments. “You allowed black racist on TV who could just go all day and say anything about white people,” Tyrus continued. “And lo and behold, they forgot that there’s a lot of people at home, white people at home during the day that are not watching your show anymore. So just clean it up.”

Tyrus doesn’t need loud drama or fancy theatrics to make his point. He just sits there calm as ever with that steady blank stare and quiet tone that somehow speaks louder than a whole speech while Joy Behar creates full performances just to make one simple point. All Tyrus has to do is lift an eyebrow and suddenly everyone understands that Joy has been out of touch for ages. Even though she still acts like she’s the voice of reason, giving long speeches that land like flat jokes on a hostile crowd. That applause she depends on. It isn’t real excitement at all, just a habit people fall into. Like clapping at the end of a mediocre play because the lights came up. When Greg and Tyrus deliver honest humor that actually lands, you realize just how ridiculous the whole situation really is. How hollow the throne, how thin the crown, how fragile the kingdom built on outrage and manufactured consent.

“It’s about The View,” Greg observed, settling into analysis mode. “It’s become like a medical display of human failure. Like, here, let’s look at this political oddity.” He gestured dramatically. “It’s really like the left-wing equivalent of a carnival sideshow, except instead of bearded ladies and fat clowns and two-headed cows…” he stopped, hand raised. “Well, let me rephrase that.”

The laughter rolled through the studio like thunder after lightning. No rephrasing needed. The image had already been painted. The comparison had already been made. The damage had already been done.

“The View is a victim of the sunk cost fallacy,” Greg continued, pivoting to deeper analysis. “How can you now speak the truth when for years you’ve been telling lies after lie after lie? Now you’re carrying this big bag of rocks around because it’s too harmful for their ego to admit that they really were dishonest. They could be honest. All they would have to say is,” he adopted a confessional tone, “Look, we hate Trump so much we were willing to lie about Joe Biden because we felt he was preferable. We thought our lying and our cover up was on your behalf.” Greg spread his hands. “Just say that. You’re still scum, but at least you’re honest scum.”

Tyrus gave Joy that unmistakable look, the kind that silently screams, “Girl, do you even hear yourself right now?” Then he simply let her words collapse under their own weight. He didn’t need to argue. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His calm stare could do all the roasting for him. A weapon requiring no ammunition beyond silence and raised eyebrows. Joy couldn’t handle that kind of quiet truth. She thrives on loud drama and exaggerated outrage. Needs it like oxygen. Craves it like applause. Silence is her kryptonite. Calm is her enemy.

While Greg effortlessly danced around her chaos with sharp humor and quick comebacks that made her whole act look even sillier. Every pivot, every jab, every perfectly timed pause. The wildest part, she could stop pretending anytime she wants, but she won’t because she loves that bright TV spotlight way too much. Needs it, depends on it, would wither without it. And that’s exactly what Greg and Tyrus exposed. Not Joy the person, but the dramatic performance she’s been repeating for years. The mask, not the face, the act, not the actor, the costume, not the character underneath.

“Sure, all that and the price of butter,” Tyrus noted. His delivery dry as desert wind. “Sunny gets the game ball. If it wasn’t for her asking that question, it might have been a closer election.” He shook his head slowly. “But when you owe, nothing really comes to mind. I was like, shhh…” The sound effect was a verbal sword being drawn.

“Listen,” Tyrus continued, voice hardening. “They’re bitter. They’re angry. They’re entitled. This should have been a reset for everyone who push lies and misinformation for the last few years. They called him Hitler. They called him these things. America rejected them.” The verdict had been delivered by 63 million voters. The appeal had been denied. The sentence was already being served. “And instead of coming back and saying, ‘We lied,’ they’re doubling down.” Tyrus observed. “So let her keep doing it because if she keeps that up, we’re going to keep getting the Senate and probably the House and the White House because people see right through.”

It honestly felt like watching someone point out that the emperor forgot to wear his clothes without even mentioning a name. Yet, everyone instantly knew exactly who was standing there, completely exposed. Tyrus didn’t need to crack a joke or say a single word. He just sat there with that calm, stone-faced expression that silently screamed, “Wow, I can’t believe this is what we’re actually talking about right now.” And that silence landed harder than any punchline ever could.

Joy’s confidence melted right in front of everyone like ice cream left on a summer sidewalk. The wildest part was that Greg and Tyrus didn’t even have to step on her stage to shake things up. They conducted the demolition from their own studio, their own territory, in their own kingdom where the rules were different and truth was still allowed. The View hasn’t been real conversation in ages. It’s become more of a skit about people pretending to share deep thoughts while the audience claps on cue—trained seals performing for fish that stopped being fresh years ago. But what Greg and Tyrus do is the total opposite. They don’t need cue cards or rehearsed lines or fake applause. They just sit there, talk honestly, and somehow turn every awkward truth into comedy gold. Watching that happen felt like long delayed justice finally catching up to all the drama. The bill coming due, the check being cashed, the karma finally clocking in.

“She loves running her mouth,” Greg observed. “She should. It’s the only running she does.” The joke landed like a precision strike. Simple, devastating, unforgettable.

“So, what did you make of this?” Emily interjected. “Vback. Vback. Vback is what she called him. I don’t care if you disagree or agree with him. That dude is not dumb.” The laughter confirmed what everyone already knew, and that is what was so ridiculous. Emily continued. “Everything that comes out of her mouth is ridiculous. But for her to make that kind of point about someone that we all know, regardless of how you feel about his politics or him running, he is undeniably brilliant. It’s so—” The sentence didn’t need finishing. The absurdity spoke for itself. The queen had called the chess grandmaster stupid and the entire board laughed in response.

While The View keeps clapping for itself and pretending it’s delivering some deep important message, Greg Gutfeld and Tyrus are serving comedy that actually hits. And you can clearly tell which side people enjoy more. One side keeps preaching and scolding, wagging fingers at an audience that stopped listening years ago. The other makes you laugh so hard it feels like stress melting away. Like tension releasing, like truth finally being spoken after years of carefully curated lies. When people get tired of being talked down to, they always choose laughter. Always, without exception. Every single time.

Which is why Joy Behar wasn’t even part of this takedown. She was probably sitting in her chair, waiting for some dramatic debate, preparing her talking points, rehearsing her outrage while Greg and Tyrus were already roasting her from miles away. Like an old TV dinner forgotten in the oven. She was burning without even knowing the heat was on. No invite, no red carpet, no notification, just quiet destruction from another studio entirely. Greg lit the fuse, took a calm sip of coffee, and watched her whole act start to shake apart from the comfort of his own set. Tyrus wrapped it all up with one blank look and a tiny snort that said everything without needing a single word.

“Here’s Joy Behar talking about refusing to share a kidney,” Greg announced, setting up the next clip with the anticipation of a man about to detonate dynamite. Joy’s voice filled the studio. “My friend is a Trump supporter. I won’t give them a kidney, but I could be friends with him.”

Greg’s response was instantaneous. “Hey Joy, it’s a kidney, not a pizza.” The studio erupted. “Of course, she’s kidding at first,” Greg continued, his tone shifting to something more analytical, more serious, “but then she goes on to explain the moral foundation for her resentment. And it’s the same one that drives all deadly ideology.” The observation landed with weight. This wasn’t just comedy anymore. This was diagnosis. This was autopsy. This was the careful dissection of a worldview that had curdled into something unrecognizable.

And that’s the part that really hits hard. Joy was clearly prepared for a loud, dramatic fight, maybe hoping for a split screen explosion filled with shouting and exaggerated gasps. The format she knows, the battlefield she’s trained for. Instead, she ended up being roasted in a moment where she didn’t even matter anymore, where her presence wasn’t required for her destruction, where her absence was actually more effective than any defense she could have mounted. Imagine spending years trying to stir people up only to realize no one even cares enough to argue back anymore. The whole act feels worn out. The joke sounds stale. The audience has already moved on without looking back. The worst part, the crowd doesn’t miss her at all. People are tired of overhyped TV lectures pretending to be smart conversation. They want something real and funny. quick wit and sharp side eyes that speak louder than a thousand rehearsed words.

The View doesn’t even feel like a real talk show anymore. It’s more like a strange wax museum where the hosts repeat the same outrage over and over, serving the same cold leftovers while the world outside is busy laughing with Greg and Tyrus instead.

“Sausage maker Johnsonville is recalling more than 42,000 lbs of pork sausage for possible contamination with plastic fibers,” Greg read, his face perfectly serious. The pause stretched. “Then fortunately, authorities were able to track all 42,000 to a single location in New York City.” The implication needed no explanation. The address was understood. The punchline had arrived without being spoken. The audience roared while the target remained blissfully unaware, 3,000 miles away, still believing in her own relevance.

It’s honestly wild how no younger viewer wants to sit through long lectures from rich TV hosts anymore. The format is dying. The audience is aging out. The future belongs to something else entirely. People are completely done with fake applause and stage moments where you can practically see the strings being pulled. The manipulation has become visible. The curtain has been pulled back. The wizard is just a scared old person yelling into a microphone. Now everyone is tuning in to Greg Gutfeld and Tyrus, watching them turn all that over-the-top nonsense into sharp, hilarious moments. While Joy Behar is still out there yelling at clouds like the storm didn’t fade away years ago. The roast already happened without her. Her shiny throne has been replaced by a wobbly little stool sitting in the dust of old jokes and forced laughs. The kingdom has moved on. The subjects have found a new court. The queen rules over empty halls.

And if you’re someone who loves real drama mixed with honest humor, if you’re tired of being preached at and ready to laugh instead, then you found your people. Because here, everything is kept real. All the tea gets spilled and the truth finally gets to wear the crown.