In an era of economic anxiety and shifting cultural power, two recent events—one from the hardwood of the WNBA All-Star Game and the other from the late-night television stage—have converged on a single truth: Americans are done funding losers. Whether it’s low-rating entertainers like Stephen Colbert or professional athletes demanding higher pay while losing public interest, the message is clear—no more free rides.

During the 2025 WNBA All-Star Game, a dramatic protest took center stage. Players from both teams donned T-shirts reading “Pay Us What You Owe Us,” demanding higher wages and more recognition. But the protest, meant to project unity and strength, instead spotlighted deep fractures within the league—both financially and interpersonally.

At the center of this discord is rookie sensation Caitlin Clark, the undeniable star who has almost single-handedly revived interest in the WNBA. Clark’s rising fame has brought new eyes, new sponsors, and new revenue to a league that has long struggled for relevance. Yet instead of celebrating her impact, some players have publicly turned against her—with Kelsey Plum and Sabrina Ionescu subtly criticizing Clark for not attending the pre-game protest meeting. Ironically, Clark wore the protest shirt they asked her to wear, but still faced snide remarks.

The broader public reaction has been less than sympathetic. Critics point out that the WNBA has historically run at a financial loss, surviving thanks to subsidies from the NBA and corporate sponsorships, not market demand. While NBA players receive nearly 50% of league revenue, WNBA players receive only about 9%. Supporters argue that’s unfair; detractors reply: “You’re paid what the market determines you’re worth.”

What’s perhaps most revealing is the bitterness directed at Clark—who, despite elevating the league’s visibility and profits, has become a lightning rod for resentment rather than gratitude. “You want to talk about a zero-sum mentality? That right there is it,” one commentator remarked. “Without Clark, the WNBA would be invisible again.” The protest seemed less like a call for equity and more like a public airing of intra-league jealousy.

Meanwhile, in an entirely different realm of media, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert has been unceremoniously canceled. While the final episode won’t air for several more months, the writing is on the wall: Colbert’s ratings have plummeted, and CBS is hemorrhaging $40 million annually on the show. New Paramount leadership under David Ellison appears unwilling to continue funding a show that caters to a shrinking, ideologically narrow audience.

Colbert’s defenders—including Rosie O’Donnell and Charlamagne Tha God—quickly cried foul, accusing the network of bowing to political pressure and Trump-era authoritarianism. They argued that the cancellation was a sign of creeping fascism, censorship, and media intimidation. But critics note the obvious: Colbert’s show simply wasn’t profitable. And in an industry driven by ratings, that matters more than political paranoia.

“Are we really under authoritarian rule because a host earning $15 million a year was let go for losing $40 million annually?” asked one media analyst. “Or are we just witnessing a rational market correction?”

The comparison between Colbert’s cancellation and the WNBA protest is striking. In both cases, we see institutions demanding continued investment—financial, cultural, and emotional—despite providing diminishing returns. The public, however, is increasingly unwilling to bankroll underperformance. The old rules of legacy privilege and protected identity politics are being replaced by a harsher, more merit-driven reality.

Americans are growing impatient with what many view as entitled outrage: athletes and entertainers blaming capitalism, sexism, politics, or “the system” when audiences lose interest. And while real inequities do exist, they aren’t solved by demanding more money without delivering more value.

Whether it’s basketball players who scorn the one woman breathing new life into their league, or late-night hosts who mistake partisan comedy for cultural relevance, the lesson is the same: the era of subsidizing failure is over. If you want the public’s money, attention, or loyalty—you have to earn it.