The Business of Breaking Us

by Tammy Pondsmith

Remember when the news was about facts? Quaint little artifacts—dates, places, quotes—stacked together like sober index cards. Now, the media has evolved into something far more sophisticated: a full-service panic delivery system. “Tonight at eleven: reasons to hate your neighbor, fear the weather, and question your sanity. Spoiler alert: all of the above.”

They call it fear porn, but don’t be fooled. This isn’t some shady VHS in the backroom of a video store. It’s mainstream, prime-time, and piped into your living room in high definition. The true pornography isn’t sex—it’s the intimate, gratuitous exploitation of division. Nothing titillates a news producer more than stripping human calm down to a quivering mess of tribal paranoia.

The business model used to be ad revenue. Now it’s adrenaline revenue. Why sell soap when you can sell suspicion? Fear is a perfect commodity—it circumvents logic, seduces the amygdala, and keeps you refreshing your feed like a lab rat pressing a dopamine lever. Every headline is a slot machine pull, rigged so the reels always land on pandemic, riots, or civilizational collapse. Jackpot: another cortisol rush.

Of course, defenders insist the media is simply “informing” us. That’s like calling a loan shark a generous banker. When a chyron screams “DEATH TOLL CLIMBING” (as if death were an influencer announcing a new merch drop), the goal isn’t civic duty—it’s keeping you transfixed long enough to watch the truck commercial. If truth really sold, headlines would read: “Millions Went About Their Day Without Incident—Film at Eleven.”

But unity? That’s a financial disaster. A cooperative public would mean no clicks, no conflict, no need for talking heads to foam on cue. Division is the product, outrage the packaging. You’re not supposed to see your fellow citizens as flawed-but-human neighbors; you’re supposed to see them as existential threats. Protestors become “terrorists.” Parents become “radicals.” Entire groups are condensed to hashtags of menace. It’s not journalism—it’s tribal cosplay with a teleprompter.

And the fear-industrial complex never retires. The virus recedes? Cue the climate apocalypse. The climate stabilizes? Cue “domestic extremists.” If those dry up, don’t worry—your smart fridge will surely plot your demise by next sweeps week. Fear is infinitely renewable, and the media milks it with the zeal of a farmer at sunrise.

Here’s the punchline: the flames they fan don’t just light up ratings; they scorch the foundations of civil society. Friends fracture, families splinter, communities eye each other with suspicion. Meanwhile, the anchors sit grinning, congratulating themselves on “holding power accountable,” while their real legacy is holding unity hostage.

So maybe the sanest move isn’t vigilance, but abstinence—not from life, but from the endless vaudeville of catastrophe. Imagine a nation clicking off the news, all at once. “Breaking: Viewers Reject Manufactured Panic, Anchors Forced into Honest Work.” Now that’s the first headline in decades worth cheering.

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Tammy Pondsmith reports tirelessly from the front lines of manufactured hysteria, where she translates media panic into punchlines sharper than the anchors’ suits.

*Article 107 News: The Facts, Before They Happen
Article 107 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice covers “false official statements.” As the name implies, Art107 News is Havok Journal’s satire wing, and you shouldn’t take anything published under this byline seriously. You should., however, mercilessly mock anyone who does.