When comedy meets the FCC: What Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension really tells us 

When ABC pulled “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” off the air on Wednesday, it blew up in seconds into far more than a late-night scheduling decision. The massive initial onslaught of media commentary has zeroed in on the political brawl — who was offended, who cheered, who screamed the loudest. But beneath the noise lies a far deeper and more important issue: the role of the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), broadcast licenses, and how the phrase “public interest” gets used as both shield and sword in America’s fight over free expression. 

Unlike streaming platforms or cable, broadcast TV runs on our public airwaves. Stations don’t own those airwaves; they lease them through FCC licenses. In exchange for the privilege of reaching every living room for free, broadcasters agree to serve the “public interest, convenience, and necessity.” This is fine stuff in theory, but who defines the “public interest”? That vague phrase has been debated for nearly a century — and it’s exactly why Kimmel’s situation touches nerves. 

Over the years, the FCC has shaped what we see and hear. Stuff like indecency rules after Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl incident, or requirements to give political candidates equal time. Sometimes these rules are a necessary check on corporate power; other times, they look and feel like excuses to hand out political punishment. That tension — protecting the public vs. policing speech — has always been baked into broadcasting. 

So when regulators hint that a late-night monologue could affect a station’s license, the chill reaches far beyond one host. It raises the specter of networks nudged into self-censorship, not over obscenity or libel, but politics. The FCC doesn’t need to swing the hammer; the threat alone makes broadcasters duck. 

Some will logically counter: these are public airwaves, and people shouldn’t be forced to hear offensive or polarizing commentary. But who exactly is “the public”? America isn’t a monolith. What outrages one group delights another. Kimmel’s jokes — like Colbert’s, Stewart’s or Leno’s — live in that contested space where comedy and politics overlap, and they’ve long been part of the national conversation. 

I’ll admit something here: personally, I don’t enjoy late-night comedy at all. It’s not for political reasons. I just don’t find any of them even remotely funny. But that doesn’t mean they should be scrutinized to the point they vanish. If political humor suddenly becomes a licensing risk, we’re no longer debating taste — we’re letting government decide what counts as acceptable discourse. 

History very clearly tells us to tread carefully here. In the 1950s, the FCC probed broadcasters for “subversive” content during the Red Scare. In the ’60s and ’70s, the Fairness Doctrine forced stations to present opposing viewpoints — praised by some, but often a bureaucratic headache that kept stations from touching politics at all. Scrapped in the 1980s, it cleared the way for talk radio and partisan cable news. Every time regulators leaned too hard on defining “public interest,” the fallout reshaped media in unpredictable and often unprecedented ways. 

Today, the stakes are far higher. The line between entertainment, commentary and journalism is blurred and jagged. A comedian can shape political conversation as much as a senator. That may annoy some, but it’s reality: people get news where they’re most engaged, and for millions, that includes late-night comedy. Treating those jokes as license violations tilts the field rather than protects the public. 

This doesn’t mean broadcasters deserve a free pass. Public interest still matters; local news, emergency alerts, children’s programming all rely on rules that prevent pure profit-seeking. But conflating “public interest” with “political convenience” is a dangerous political sword. Punish comedy today, and what stops another administration from punishing climate coverage or a sharp cartoon tomorrow? Once the door opens, it rarely swings just one way. 

Kimmel’s suspension may look like another culture-war dust-up, but it’s really a test of how fragile free expression becomes when broadcast rules collide with politics. Streaming platforms face no FCC oversight, so comedians there can say things they’d never attempt on ABC. That leaves traditional broadcasters tiptoeing around landmines while the loudest, least-regulated voices thrive online — not exactly a recipe for healthy discourse. 

So instead of shouting about whether Kimmel “went too far,” the better question is about what precedent we set if “comedic” TV political commentary becomes grounds for regulatory action. Do we really want the FCC, or any government agency, acting as America’s editor-in-chief of comedy? If we do, the punchline lands on all of us. 

Aron Solomon is chief strategy officer for AMPLIFY and has taught entrepreneurship at McGill University and the University of Pennsylvania.