Jack laid out the facts. I want to sit on one detail a beat longer, because it explains everything that came after.
Carr spent nine formative years learning to survive by finding the strongest authority figure in the room and making himself indispensable to it. That's not therapy. That's a training program. And he graduated summa cum laude.
Here's the part people skip past: Carr didn't wait for the FCC chairmanship to start building his empire. He wrote the blueprint while he was still just a commissioner — authored the FCC chapter of Project 2025 with his official title stamped on it, a move so brazen that sixteen House Democrats asked the agency's own ethics office to look into whether he broke federal law doing it. That's not a guy who got handed a playbook. That's a guy who drafted his own coronation while pretending to still be a neutral regulator.
So when he finally got the gavel and told Disney "we can do this the easy way or the hard way" over a Jimmy Kimmel joke, nobody should've been shocked. That's not policy language. I've heard that sentence structure before — it's the sentence a guy uses right before somebody's knees stop working. It's mob syntax dressed up in a suit from Men's Wearhouse, and it came out of him as naturally as breathing, because he learned that cadence before he learned how to drive.
Nobody's pulling strings here, Jack. There's no puppet master monologue, no smoke-filled room. This is entirely curry favor, dressed up as regulatory philosophy. This is a man who learned as a teenager that submission gets you protected, and he's been auditioning for protection ever since — first from a cult leader who's dead, now from a president who isn't, and this time he wrote his own audition script and got caught doing it in daylight.
And there's something genuinely sinister buried in how casually he did it. Threatening a network's broadcast license over a comedian's monologue isn't muscular deregulation — it's the federal government leaning on a private company to punish a joke it didn't like, delivered in the exact tone you'd use to lean on a bar owner who's late on payments. Carr built a career insisting government shouldn't touch newsroom decisions, then wrote himself the authority to do exactly that, and used it the first chance he got.
The FCC used to regulate spectrum. Now it's running protection. And the guy holding the ledger learned the math at seventeen, in a room where the wrong answer got you sent away.
Rae...I wrote it the first time, and then...it was like crack cocaine; I was COMPELLED to say it at least two more times. I feel that strongly about this man and his soulless existence.
Jack laid out the facts. I want to sit on one detail a beat longer, because it explains everything that came after.
Carr spent nine formative years learning to survive by finding the strongest authority figure in the room and making himself indispensable to it. That's not therapy. That's a training program. And he graduated summa cum laude.
Here's the part people skip past: Carr didn't wait for the FCC chairmanship to start building his empire. He wrote the blueprint while he was still just a commissioner — authored the FCC chapter of Project 2025 with his official title stamped on it, a move so brazen that sixteen House Democrats asked the agency's own ethics office to look into whether he broke federal law doing it. That's not a guy who got handed a playbook. That's a guy who drafted his own coronation while pretending to still be a neutral regulator.
So when he finally got the gavel and told Disney "we can do this the easy way or the hard way" over a Jimmy Kimmel joke, nobody should've been shocked. That's not policy language. I've heard that sentence structure before — it's the sentence a guy uses right before somebody's knees stop working. It's mob syntax dressed up in a suit from Men's Wearhouse, and it came out of him as naturally as breathing, because he learned that cadence before he learned how to drive.
Nobody's pulling strings here, Jack. There's no puppet master monologue, no smoke-filled room. This is entirely curry favor, dressed up as regulatory philosophy. This is a man who learned as a teenager that submission gets you protected, and he's been auditioning for protection ever since — first from a cult leader who's dead, now from a president who isn't, and this time he wrote his own audition script and got caught doing it in daylight.
And there's something genuinely sinister buried in how casually he did it. Threatening a network's broadcast license over a comedian's monologue isn't muscular deregulation — it's the federal government leaning on a private company to punish a joke it didn't like, delivered in the exact tone you'd use to lean on a bar owner who's late on payments. Carr built a career insisting government shouldn't touch newsroom decisions, then wrote himself the authority to do exactly that, and used it the first chance he got.
The FCC used to regulate spectrum. Now it's running protection. And the guy holding the ledger learned the math at seventeen, in a room where the wrong answer got you sent away.
#HOLDFAST
Jane...good catch on Project 2025. Seriously.
That's the receipt: he wrote the playbook BEFORE he had the power to run it. "Running protection" nails what the FCC has become.
Thanks for adding to this!
#HOLDFAST
-Jack
Punk is the perfect description of this asshat.
Rae...I wrote it the first time, and then...it was like crack cocaine; I was COMPELLED to say it at least two more times. I feel that strongly about this man and his soulless existence.
-Jack