FCC Crashes Hollywood’s Talk Show Party—Kimmel and Colbert Clap Back!

Olivia Bennett, 1/24/2026The FCC's new “equal time” rule has rattled late-night talk shows, prompting stars like Jimmy Kimmel and Stephen Colbert to push back against perceived censorship. As the regulatory landscape shifts, the comedy scene faces challenges in balancing entertainment and political discourse, raising questions about free speech and audience access to diverse viewpoints.

Credit for this particular plot twist falls, in no small part, to Brendan Carr and his band of regulators. Their latest guidance on the “equal time” rule is less a fussy inter-office memo, more a flourish of legalistic calligraphy—one that manages to unsettle an industry used to winking at the fourth wall. It’s regulatory theater, equal parts noir and new wave, with Carr cast somewhere between a studio-era mogul and a would-be cultural referee.

Jimmy Kimmel, who has never shied away from a well-timed quip, brought the matter before his audience with all the arched-brow flamboyance of Bette Davis discovering last year’s script in her dressing room. “It’s a sneaky little way of keeping viewpoints that aren’t his off air,” Kimmel shot, the remark landing like confetti at a New Year’s afterparty. One could practically see the feathered boa trailing behind the punchline. Free speech, Kimmel insisted, wears more than one face—and perhaps more than one shade of foundation, too.

What’s fascinating, really, is this sense of déjà vu coloring the air. Once upon a time, when a handful of three-piece suits decided what made it from stage to living room, the FCC’s rules served as studio security—blunt yet necessary. The “equal time” doctrine, dating back to a sepia-toned age of broadcast, tried to make sure no single face—or ideology—monopolized the nation’s airwaves. Yet here we are: not with a single TV pond, but instead a wildly unruly buffet of options, TikTokers and Truth Social ranters rubbing digital shoulders with network veterans. “We’re the mashed potatoes on the buffet, and now the FCC wants to mash us even more,” Kimmel mused—never has a starch so perfectly captured existential malaise.

The spark for all this? A new decree from the FCC’s Media Bureau, threatening to rewrite a truce that’s held since—mix a martini and dial up a mid-aughts playlist—a 2006 verdict let Jay Leno’s giggle sessions off the hook after Arnold Schwarzenegger’s guest stint. That decision, in bureaucratic logic, recognized late-night talk shows as entertainment, not news: the kind of television where a senator might rub elbows with a Hollywood stunt dog. Since then, hosts have lampooned, cajoled, and grilled politicians at will, without fretting over how to fit every single candidate into a single broadcast week.

But Carr, never a man to pass up a moment in the spotlight, now accuses some programs of willfully mangling the law. Thus, the chill sets in. As Kimmel recently pointed out, in a world with “20 people from 20 different parties,” the math gets ridiculous—unless every candidate gets a spot on the couch, the couch stays empty. Rather like debuting a designer gown only to be told you must bring the entire collection on stage at once—beautiful in theory, hopeless in practice.

And so, the guidance insists: shows “motivated by partisan purposes" no longer enjoy their entertainment carte blanche. The past’s neat rows of political hors d’oeuvres are gone; in their place, a heads-or-tails madness more reminiscent of an Oscars afterparty gone awry. Stephen Colbert, ever the grandmaster of politically-tuned wit, seemed almost amused at the notion his show wields such power. “If our government had turned out the way I had chosen, you would not have the power to make this announcement,” Colbert remarked—a zinger that lands somewhere between sardonic and world-weary.

What fades into the footlights here isn’t just the egos of late-night’s style icons. The practical effect is to inject a dose of bureaucratic paranoia into every booking call. Michael Harrison, presiding over Talkers magazine like a modern-day gossip columnist with a legal brief, summed it up: uncertainty breeds risk aversion, and suddenly, the path of least resistance is to avoid political engagement all together. The ghost of the Fairness Doctrine rattles a few chains; once again, creativity finds itself shushed by the threat of paperwork.

Of course, this is no one-sided soliloquy. The right-wing chorus—think Sean Hannity, who never met a talking point he didn’t send to hair and makeup first—bristles at the thought of left-leaning legacy media facing stiffer scrutiny, and then quickly realize… the rulebook applies to conservative talk radio too. “We need less government regulation and more freedom. Let the American people decide where to get their information from without any government interference,” Hannity declared, channeling a sentiment as American as that bedazzled flag dress from back in the day.

So where does that leave the audience, peering in through the proscenium? The larger issue is who gets to say what’s “fair”—who gets to slice and plate the national conversation, and who’s left scraping up the crumbs. Is this move a necessary reset for a fractious time, or merely a power play wrapped in well-pressed bureaucracy? In other words: who gets to hold the scissors, and who’s left without a pattern?

Entertainment, for all its chiffon and showmanship, has always done double duty as America’s looking glass—reflecting, distorting, sometimes magnifying our collective anxieties. The present drama only proves we’re still hooked on the spectacle, unable to resist the ever-repeating question: when does performance cross the line into politics, and who’s got the final call when the credits roll?

Perhaps in this era of endless platforms and even longer election seasons, the most galling casualty is the audience itself—deprived, bit by bit, of the unruly sparkle of competing voices and unexpected points of view. Mashed potatoes may never steal the scene, but they go down best with a side of irreverence. Someone should tell the FCC—before the buffet closes for the night.

Who’d have thought late-night television—the supposed sanctuary of open collars and sharper tongues—would end up caught in a regulatory tug-of-war straight out of an old RKO melodrama? Yet as the curtain rises on 2025, the FCC’s latest gambit has left America’s talk show titans eyeing their guest lists with a rare look of genuine worry.Credit for this particular plot twist falls, in no small part, to Brendan Carr and his band of regulators. Their latest guidance on the “equal time” rule is less a fussy inter-office memo, more a flourish of legalistic calligraphy—one that manages to unsettle an industry used to winking at the fourth wall. It’s regulatory theater, equal parts noir and new wave, with Carr cast somewhere between a studio-era mogul and a would-be cultural referee.Jimmy Kimmel, who has never shied away from a well-timed quip, brought the matter before his audience with all the arched-brow flamboyance of Bette Davis discovering last year’s script in her dressing room. “It’s a sneaky little way of keeping viewpoints that aren’t his off air,” Kimmel shot, the remark landing like confetti at a New Year’s afterparty. One could practically see the feathered boa trailing behind the punchline. Free speech, Kimmel insisted, wears more than one face—and perhaps more than one shade of foundation, too.What’s fascinating, really, is this sense of déjà vu coloring the air. Once upon a time, when a handful of three-piece suits decided what made it from stage to living room, the FCC’s rules served as studio security—blunt yet necessary. The “equal time” doctrine, dating back to a sepia-toned age of broadcast, tried to make sure no single face—or ideology—monopolized the nation’s airwaves. Yet here we are: not with a single TV pond, but instead a wildly unruly buffet of options, TikTokers and Truth Social ranters rubbing digital shoulders with network veterans. “We’re the mashed potatoes on the buffet, and now the FCC wants to mash us even more,” Kimmel mused—never has a starch so perfectly captured existential malaise.The spark for all this? A new decree from the FCC’s Media Bureau, threatening to rewrite a truce that’s held since—mix a martini and dial up a mid-aughts playlist—a 2006 verdict let Jay Leno’s giggle sessions off the hook after Arnold Schwarzenegger’s guest stint. That decision, in bureaucratic logic, recognized late-night talk shows as entertainment, not news: the kind of television where a senator might rub elbows with a Hollywood stunt dog. Since then, hosts have lampooned, cajoled, and grilled politicians at will, without fretting over how to fit every single candidate into a single broadcast week.But Carr, never a man to pass up a moment in the spotlight, now accuses some programs of willfully mangling the law. Thus, the chill sets in. As Kimmel recently pointed out, in a world with “20 people from 20 different parties,” the math gets ridiculous—unless every candidate gets a spot on the couch, the couch stays empty. Rather like debuting a designer gown only to be told you must bring the entire collection on stage at once—beautiful in theory, hopeless in practice.And so, the guidance insists: shows “motivated by partisan purposes" no longer enjoy their entertainment carte blanche. The past’s neat rows of political hors d’oeuvres are gone; in their place, a heads-or-tails madness more reminiscent of an Oscars afterparty gone awry. Stephen Colbert, ever the grandmaster of politically-tuned wit, seemed almost amused at the notion his show wields such power. “If our government had turned out the way I had chosen, you would not have the power to make this announcement,” Colbert remarked—a zinger that lands somewhere between sardonic and world-weary.What fades into the footlights here isn’t just the egos of late-night’s style icons. The practical effect is to inject a dose of bureaucratic paranoia into every booking call. Michael Harrison, presiding over Talkers magazine like a modern-day gossip columnist with a legal brief, summed it up: uncertainty breeds risk aversion, and suddenly, the path of least resistance is to avoid political engagement all together. The ghost of the Fairness Doctrine rattles a few chains; once again, creativity finds itself shushed by the threat of paperwork.Of course, this is no one-sided soliloquy. The right-wing chorus—think Sean Hannity, who never met a talking point he didn’t send to hair and makeup first—bristles at the thought of left-leaning legacy media facing stiffer scrutiny, and then quickly realize… the rulebook applies to conservative talk radio too. “We need less government regulation and more freedom. Let the American people decide where to get their information from without any government interference,” Hannity declared, channeling a sentiment as American as that bedazzled flag dress from back in the day.So where does that leave the audience, peering in through the proscenium? The larger issue is who gets to say what’s “fair”—who gets to slice and plate the national conversation, and who’s left scraping up the crumbs. Is this move a necessary reset for a fractious time, or merely a power play wrapped in well-pressed bureaucracy? In other words: who gets to hold the scissors, and who’s left without a pattern?Entertainment, for all its chiffon and showmanship, has always done double duty as America’s looking glass—reflecting, distorting, sometimes magnifying our collective anxieties. The present drama only proves we’re still hooked on the spectacle, unable to resist the ever-repeating question: when does performance cross the line into politics, and who’s got the final call when the credits roll?Perhaps in this era of endless platforms and even longer election seasons, the most galling casualty is the audience itself—deprived, bit by bit, of the unruly sparkle of competing voices and unexpected points of view. Mashed potatoes may never steal the scene, but they go down best with a side of irreverence. Someone should tell the FCC—before the buffet closes for the night.