Is Celebrity Family Feud Still On TV?

Lineup Highlights (Season 11 Matchups) Taraji P. Henson vs. Jennifer Hudson (with their families) The Dan Patrick Show team vs. The Rich Eisen Show team Matt Rife vs. Lil Jon Kat Graham vs. Francia Raisa The Arquette family vs. Martina McBride Patti LaBelle vs. Fantasia Diplo vs. Laverne Cox General Hospital cast vs. The Young and the Restless cast: General Hospital: Finola Hughes, Donnell Turner, Rena Sofer, Tanisha Harper, Maurice Benard The Young and the Restless: Joshua Morrow, Michelle Stafford, Lauralee Bell, Melissa Claire Egan, Bryton James Kyle Richards vs. Kandi Burruss-Tucker NFLPA Defense vs. NFLPA Offense Celebrity Chefs: Carla Hall vs. Bobby Flay Jason Ritter vs. Andy Richter Fantasia Barrino vs. Patti LaBelle (possibly overlapping with above) Vanessa Bayer vs. Bridget Everett Francia Raisa vs. Kat Graham (possibly overlapping with above) Kandi Burruss‑Tucker vs. Kyle Richards (possibly overlapping with above) Michelle Buteau vs. Normani Additional rounds include Stephen Nedoroscik vs. Jordan Chiles and Lil Rel Howery vs. George Wallace

Yes, Celebrity Family Feud is back in 2025! The new season kicked off in July, and Steve Harvey is once again hosting the hilarious celebrity matchups. The show continues to bring together famous faces competing for charity, with all the humor, tension, and good-natured chaos fans have come to expect. Whether it’s actors, athletes, or musicians, the guest lineups are fresh and entertaining. The format hasn’t changed much—it’s still the fast-paced, family-style trivia game we all love.

The finale of 'Romeo and Juliet' lands like a sudden thunderclap: two young bodies in a dark tomb, a crowd of stunned relatives and officials, and a Prince whose anger melts into sorrow. When I watch or read that last scene, what stands out is how Shakespeare makes the private tragedy public. Romeo and Juliet's deaths force everyone into the same space of grief — there’s no hiding behind gossip or adolescent bravado in a cold vault. The immediate, practical resolution is simple on paper: the Montagues and Capulets, confronted with the direct consequence of their feud, acknowledge their part in the catastrophe, apologize aloud, and promise to make amends. The families agree to end the quarrel, and Montague vows to erect a statue of Juliet; Capulet, moved, says he will do the same for Romeo. It’s a symbolic exchange, almost like two people signing a peace treaty with tears instead of ink. The deeper mechanism of resolution is psychological and social. Before the deaths, hatred is abstract — insults on the street, reputations bruised, honor defended. After the deaths, hatred has a victim: youthful innocence and wasted potential. That concreteness makes denial hard. The Prince’s speech — scolding yet sorrowful — publicly names the feud as a scourge and demands accountability. In theatrical terms, Shakespeare uses public space and public authority to seal the end: the private tragedy becomes a civic lesson. I’ve seen a production where the families literally drop their weapons in the tomb and help carry the bodies out; that physical labor of mourning plays like a ritual cleansing. The play doesn’t spend time on the logistics of peace — there’s no detailed treaty or reconciliation dinner — but it gives us the essentials: admission of guilt, public condemnation, and symbolic reparations. Still, I never come away entirely comforted. The resolution in 'Romeo and Juliet' feels both powerful and precarious. It’s powerful because it proves that shared grief can bridge monstrous divisions; it’s precarious because the peace rests on an awful price. In real life, communities sometimes need sustained work after a tragedy: conversations, changes in leadership, concrete policy shifts. Shakespeare knows this, and he leaves the audience in that uncomfortable space — relieved that swords are sheathed, but aware that promises made in the shadow of a tomb might wither without care. I usually leave the theater wanting a follow-up scene where the families actually learn to sit together for supper, but the play prefers the sting of the lesson over tidy closure, which feels eerily true to life.

By the time I got around to rewatching 'The Originals' for the third time, the way Elijah and Klaus finally settled things felt less like a tidy finish and more like the realistic, messy truce you get with family in real life. Their feud wasn't a single fight or a big speech — it was a thousand small reckonings stretched over decades: betrayals born from fear, attempts at control, and repeated choices to put one another last or first depending on the moment. The roots go way back to Esther's spell, Mikael's hatred, and Klaus's monstrous origin as a hybrid; those early betrayals poisoned trust and set brother against brother. Elijah spent most of the series trying to hold the family together by being the moral anchor, and Klaus swung between cruelty and rare, heartbreaking vulnerability. What makes their resolution satisfying to me is that it isn't instant forgiveness; it's earned. Klaus starts making deliberate choices that privilege his daughter's future over his own thirst for dominance — choices that show up in small mercies and in his willingness to bear consequences. Elijah, for his part, stops trying to fix Klaus by sheer will and starts accepting him as he is, while still holding him accountable. Their final reconciliation feels powered by shared suffering and a mutual understanding that the family’s survival (Thanks, Hope) matters more than old grudges. The emotional apex is not some courtroom confession but a handful of honest conversations, a few sacrifices, and those quieter scenes where they actually listen to each other. There's a lot of forgiveness, but it's also tempered by grief for what can't be undone. If you like the theme of redemption threaded through supernatural melodrama, rewatch the later seasons of 'The Vampire Diaries' alongside 'The Originals' — the back-and-forth flashbacks do a beautiful job of showing how choices echo through time. Personally, I love the way the writers let reconciliation be slow and earned: it makes the moments when they do reach peace feel genuine rather than cheap. For me, the takeaway is that family in that world is both a curse and a salvation, and their truce is messy, human, and oddly comforting.

In 'Still Alice', the exploration of family dynamics is raw and deeply moving. Alice’s diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s forces her family to confront their roles and relationships in ways they never anticipated. Her husband, John, struggles between his career ambitions and the need to care for Alice, often feeling torn and guilty. Their daughters, Lydia and Anna, react differently—Lydia, the free-spirited actress, steps up in unexpected ways, while Anna, the more pragmatic one, grapples with fear and resentment. The novel doesn’t shy away from showing the cracks in their relationships. Alice’s illness becomes a mirror, reflecting their insecurities, love, and sometimes, their selfishness. There’s a poignant moment when Alice forgets Lydia’s name, and Lydia’s heartbreak is palpable, yet she uses it as a catalyst to connect more deeply with her mother. The family’s journey isn’t about perfection but about learning to adapt, forgive, and love in the face of loss. It’s a testament to how illness can both fracture and strengthen familial bonds.

Man, the whole Stokes Twins vs. Shawn drama was such a rollercoaster! I remember scrolling through YouTube and TikTok last year, seeing all these cryptic posts and clapbacks. It started with some behind-the-scenes tension about collaborations gone wrong—rumors about money splits, creative control, or just plain old ego clashes. The twins (Alan and Alex) and Shawn used to collab a lot, but then suddenly, they weren't even mentioning each other. Fans went wild dissecting subtweets and deleted comments. What really got me was how passive-aggressive it all felt. Like, Shawn dropped this video hinting at 'fake friends,' and the twins responded with vague stuff about 'loyalty.' It never blew up into a full-on diss track war, but the vibe was definitely icy. Now? They seem to have moved on, but I low-key miss the chaos—it was prime internet drama fodder.

Man, this question made me dig through my mental shelf of fandom trivia — 'Kurama' shows up in a few places, and the phrase 'Kurama clan' isn't a single, neat thing across all series. If you're thinking of 'Naruto', people often talk about betrayal surrounding the Nine-Tails' history, but it isn’t a tidy “one-person betrayed the Kurama clan” moment. Kurama (the Nine-Tails) was a tailed beast manipulated and weaponized by humans over generations; figures like Madara and later Obito (posing as Madara) are usually named when fans point fingers at who exploited or orchestrated attacks involving Kurama. If instead you meant the fox-demon Kurama from 'Yu Yu Hakusho', the story is different: Yoko Kurama’s past focuses on power struggles within the demon world and his survival, not a single prominent betrayal of a whole clan in the same way. A lot of what makes Kurama heartbreaking there is loss and exile more than one dramatic backstab. So, honestly, whether there was a clear betrayer depends on which 'Kurama' and which feud you have in mind — tell me which series you mean and I’ll dig into the exact who/why with tea-ready-level detail.

Every otaku's dream of a crush, mine isn't some big-time Hollywood actor. I am into Hayao Miyazaki, the guy who breathed America-made movie 'Spirited Away' and 'My Neighborhood Totoro' into life. The best part: He's not simply an animator with great style; Above all else he has this interesting sense for storytelling and excellent character design. What magic it is to watch him at work creating new characters blend together like peas in a pod His influence is pervasive; that's why he's my idol. He created a world of against surrealism that you can relate to, which is rare in this age and very much appreciated.