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Over the last decade, American news outlets have pulled off a miracle of modern engineering: they turned what was supposed to be a public service into a nationwide, always-on divorce court where the country is permanently arguing over who gets custody of reality.

You don’t “watch” the news anymore; you enroll in a tribe with a theme song. The old model—here’s what happened, here’s the weather, go live your life—has been replaced by “don’t move, don’t blink, and for the love of God don’t change the channel or the other side wins.”

Networks used to compete to be accurate. That was adorable. Now they compete to be addictive. Accuracy is optional; addiction is non‑negotiable. Programming is tuned like a rage algorithm: sort viewers into ideological terrariums, tap the glass, and cut to commercial.

On Channel Red, the chyron screams the Republic will collapse by Thursday because someone used the wrong pronouns in a zoning meeting. On Channel Blue, democracy died last Tuesday because a city councilman wore the wrong hat at a parade. Different logos, same plot: “You Are Surrounded by Monsters (Stay Tuned After These Ads For Mattresses and Erectile Dysfunction).”

This is not journalism; it’s subscription-based panic.

The modern newsroom isn’t a public square; it’s a call center for political parties with better lighting. One outlet plays everything as apocalypse, another as clerical error, a third as “nothing to see here,” and a fourth plays the same four clips on loop until your brain files for unemployment. Somewhere under the graphics, polls, and feel‑good story about a dog who allegedly voted, there might be a fact, but you’ll need a shovel and three commercial breaks to reach it.

The real masterstroke wasn’t just making the news partisan; it was turning politics into the operating system of daily life.

You can no longer simply drink coffee; your mug has a voting record. Your streaming platform is a policy statement. Enjoy sports? Wrong—those are now three‑hour campaign rallies with helmets. We have politicized weather, school lunches, superhero movies, and whether it’s okay to like a song from 1998.

“Hey, that’s my neighbor Bob, he grills on weekends” has been rebranded as “That’s a potential fascist/Marxist insurgent who liked the wrong post; I must never speak to him again.” The news didn’t just cover that shift; it injected it, branded it, and sold it on a tote bag.

Why? Because division scales. “Americans unite” does not move ad inventory” or reward politicians sponsored by special interests. Americans are hopelessly fractured into warring tribes who hate each other’s lawn signs” can be monetized for decades.

The ad decks write themselves: “Our viewers are deeply engaged.” Translation: they’re terrified, furious, and refreshing their feeds at 1:37 a.m. like raccoons in a dumpster behind a caffeine factory. That level of panic is pure gold—clicks, shares, subscriptions, exclusive newsletters where the host whispers, “No really, the other side is worse than I said on TV.”

Social media is the syndication arm. News manufactures the tempest; platforms bottle it and sell it back as “community engagement.” You don’t just watch a story; you must choose a side, craft a snarky comment, and annihilate a stranger whose avatar is an eagle wearing sunglasses.

Here’s the uncomfortable part: it keeps working because we keep buying.

We say we want balanced coverage, then change the channel the moment balance feels like homework. We complain that everything is “so divisive” while rewarding the outlets that divide us with the loudest graphics and angriest guests.

News organizations discovered the only real bipartisan truth left in America: people love being told they’re right and someone else is ruining everything. That’s the product. “Facts” are just the delivery mechanism.

At Article 107 News, our whole business model is reporting the facts before they happen, and even we’re disturbed watching the rest of the industry do predictive spin: “We don’t know what will occur, but we can already tell you which group you should preemptively hate for it.” Breaking: tomorrow’s outrage, today.

Here’s what no one on the panel show will say: the algorithm is us. If we stopped clicking rage bait, they’d stop making rage bait. If we turned off the eleven-person shout panel and talked to an actual human being with a pulse and a mortgage, the temperature would drop faster than a politician’s approval rating after a microphone malfunction.

But redemption is terrible for ratings, so you won’t see that segment.

So yes, the news has been tuned to divide us, enlisted as a part-time propaganda ministry, woven politics into our cereal, and cashed every check the chaos wrote. The real cliffhanger is whether we keep letting them program our emotions like they’re setting up the fall lineup.

Until then, I’ll be here at Article 107, calmly informing you that next week you will be outraged by a thing you do not yet understand, against people you have never met, for reasons that will be explained between ads for pharmaceuticals you can’t pronounce.

Tammy Pondsmith is a senior correspondent at Article 107 News who live‑tweets tomorrow’s scandals from a bunker made of expired press passes and burned Nielsen reports.