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Time To Cut The Cord: Why Public Broadcasting No Longer Deserves Our Tax Dollars


The Public Broadcasting Act of 1967 should be repealed. Why should American taxpayers continue funding a relic of the past when today we have unlimited access to diverse media options at our fingertips? With more than 1,000 television channels, streaming services and endless online content, is there really a need for publicly funded broadcasting in this modern landscape? What was once seen as a necessary initiative for diversifying the media landscape has devolved into a relic of an earlier age—a $2 billion handout benefiting only a small, elite audience. When Lyndon B. Johnson signed the legislation, Americans faced a scarcity of options: four television channels and limited radio programming, often constrained by corporate interests or regional limitations. There was an argument to be made that there was a public need for diversified and educational content. Fast forward to today, the notion of scarcity is laughable. Americans enjoy an overwhelming array of choices, from the internet and streaming services to podcasts, YouTube channels and digital news outlets—all of which have replaced the once-venerated public broadcasting model.

And yet, here we are, funding a bloated Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) that receives approximately $525 million annually from the federal government, sending most of it down the bureaucratic chain to National Public Radio (NPR), the Public Broadcasting Service (PBS) and roughly 1,500 local affiliates. For instance, local stations often receive funding that must then be funneled back to NPR or PBS to cover the costs of syndicated content, leaving little room for truly local programming or innovation. This results in a top-heavy structure where national priorities overshadow community needs and creativity is stifled by bureaucratic constraints. These taxpayer funds support an organization that’s become little more than a publicly subsidized echo chamber for liberal ideas—a taxpayer-funded sandbox for the rich, white liberal elite who can comfortably afford alternative sources of information. Statistically, the audience for public broadcasting is disproportionately affluent, overwhelmingly white and markedly liberal, with fewer than 17% of viewers identifying as Republicans. This means that 80% of America—including those struggling to make ends meet, those from minority communities and those who don’t share a progressive worldview—are effectively subsidizing the content consumption of a privileged minority.

The “public” spirit behind public broadcasting has clearly eroded. As audience demographics shifted over the decades, so too did the programming, drifting away from the balanced ideals that once defined it. This shift starts at the top, with leadership steering the ideological course. Take for example NPR’s CEO Katherine Maher, who has previously stated that “her biggest obstacle in her fight against disinformation is the First Amendment in the United States, which makes it a little bit tricky to censor bad information and the influence peddlers who spread it.” Such perspectives from top leadership reflect and perpetuate the current direction of public broadcasting. During the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s, shows like The McLaughlin Group, Firing Line and MacNeil/Lehrer Report actively cultivated an environment of political balance. William F. Buckley Jr. debated liberals with eloquence and vigor, while Jim Lehrer ensured his news programming gave equal weight to both sides of every political coin. This was public broadcasting at its finest: genuine dialogue, real debate and a respect for the full spectrum of American thought. Fast forward to today, and that ideal has been abandoned. Conservative voices are persona non grata in the public broadcasting realm. The transformation culminated with the election of Donald Trump in 2016, which seemed to shatter the public broadcasting model’s already fragile pretense of impartiality. Republican perspectives were deemed dangerous, and even the mere platforming of a Trump supporter was anathema. Public broadcasting became, and remains, an exclusive club for ideological uniformity.

Consider the case of Uri Berliner, a veteran journalist who dedicated 25 years to NPR, serving as a senior business editor. In April 2024, Berliner authored an essay titled “I’ve Been at NPR for 25 Years. Here’s How We Lost America’s Trust,” where he criticized NPR for adopting a progressive worldview and lacking viewpoint diversity. He cited instances such as the handling of the Hunter Biden laptop story and the origins of COVID-19 as evidence of bias. Following the publication of his essay, Berliner was suspended for five days without pay for failing to secure approval for outside work. Subsequently, he resigned, stating he could not work in a newsroom where he felt disparaged by the new CEO. This incident underscores the intolerance for internal dissent within public broadcasting. The message was clear: there is no room for dissent. If public broadcasting cannot uphold even the pretense of ideological diversity, why should it continue to be funded by taxpayers who don’t share its worldview?

Moreover, let’s scrutinize the opaque and convoluted way in which federal dollars flow through public broadcasting. The CPB receives around $525 million from the government, and this is merely the tip of the iceberg. Additional funding filters in through the Departments of Commerce and Education—amounting to another $500 million. These funds then disperse across various entities, obfuscating the total expenditure. What eventually trickles down to the American viewer is a complex web of grants, subsidies, and donations that ensures NPR, PBS, and their affiliates remain flush with cash. Yet, even with this largesse, their ratings remain woefully anemic, with only about 20% of Americans tuning in. Of those, the majority belong to the same cohort of wealthy, liberal and overwhelmingly white individuals who already have the means to afford premium news subscriptions. This isn’t public service; it’s public indulgence.

We must address the crux of the issue: why should taxpayers continue to fund a platform that serves such a narrow slice of America, particularly when that slice doesn’t represent the nation’s full diversity—neither demographically nor ideologically? Public broadcasting could easily adapt, were it forced to stand on its own two feet. It could charge subscription fees like HBO or Peacock. It could run more advertising, sell more memberships or, heaven forbid, even trim its bloated budget. Defunding public broadcasting doesn’t spell the end of NPR, PBS or their affiliates. It simply removes the unfair burden from those who receive nothing in return. In a market-driven landscape, those who value the service could sustain it, and those who don’t wouldn’t be compelled to pay for it.

Public broadcasting defenders often argue that this is about protecting the cultural commons—ensuring that educational and high-quality content is accessible to all. But this argument is no longer tenable. In today’s digital age, there is no shortage of educational content. If anything, the challenge is sorting through the deluge of material available at our fingertips. Podcasts, YouTube channels, MOOCs and countless other platforms offer educational programming across every conceivable discipline. If you want to learn, you can, and without a government handout.

I speak not from ignorance or disdain but from disappointment. I once supported my local public broadcasting station. I contributed to my PBS affiliate, valuing the balance and thoughtfulness that public broadcasting promised. But that promise has been broken. Now, each time I tune in, I’m met with bias, with narrative-driven content that caters not to truth but to ideology. The federal government should not be in the business of funding media—especially not media that functions as an arm of a single political faction. The Public Broadcasting Act of 1967 had its moment in history, and it served its purpose. But times have changed, and so must we. Public broadcasting as we know it today is unworthy of the American taxpayer’s dollar. Let the marketplace decide its fate.

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Never, EVER Talk to Police and Especially If You Are Innocent. Not A Peep, Grunt, Nod, Yes, No, Etc. NOTHING But Neutral Silence and Stance While Also Expressing with Emphasis This Same Advice to Family, Friends and Neighbors If Ever Approached for Information About You as Well. They Are Also NOT Obliged to Communicate Either.


Screenshot via X [Credit: @amuse]

James Duane, a professor at Regent University School of Law, once gave a lecture with a deliberately provocative title, “Don’t Talk to the Police.” The title sounds extreme, even antisocial. It seems to counsel guilt, evasion, or hostility to lawful authority. Yet the argument Duane develops is none of these things. It is instead a sober analysis of how modern criminal procedure actually works, not how we wish it worked. When examined carefully, the conclusion he reaches is not merely defensible but compelling. Under current U.S. law, the rational course of action for any person, guilty or innocent, is to decline to answer police questions and to request a lawyer. This is not a loophole. It is the logic of the Fifth Amendment taken seriously.

Don't Talk to the Police
Regent Law Professor James Duane gives viewers startling reasons why they should always exercise their Fifth Amendment rights when questioned by government officials.

Begin with the most basic misconception. Many people believe that talking can help them avoid arrest. They imagine that if they can just explain themselves, the officer will see their innocence and let them go. But police encounters do not begin in a neutral epistemic posture. Officers approach because they already suspect wrongdoing or because they are tasked with finding it. Their professional incentive is not to be persuaded by your narrative but to establish probable cause. This is not a moral criticism. It is a description of the job. As officers themselves openly acknowledge, a strong case is one with admissions. Confessions are not a bonus; they are the objective. Talking does not remove suspicion; it supplies material with which suspicion is formalized.

Even if arrest could theoretically be avoided through explanation, the structure of evidence law makes talking a one-way bet. Statements you make to police can almost always be used against you. Statements that help you are usually inadmissible in your favor. This is not intuitive to laypeople, but it is fundamental. Your exculpatory remarks are typically classified as your own out-of-court statements and, therefore, hearsay if you later attempt to introduce them. The prosecution, by contrast, can introduce your incriminating statements through the officer who heard them. The asymmetry is stark. Speaking hands the state admissible evidence while preserving nothing comparable for you. Silence preserves the status quo. Talking degrades it.

Consider next the case of actual guilt. Here, moral intuition often overwhelms strategic reasoning. People say one should confess for the sake of conscience or closure. But criminal law is not a sacrament. It is an adversarial system in which leverage matters. Almost all cases resolve through plea negotiations. That process is precisely where responsibility, remorse, restitution, and cooperation can be weighed in exchange for concessions. An immediate confession forfeits that leverage for nothing. Worse, even partial admissions can rescue a weak case. Evidence degrades. Witnesses disappear. Officers retire or relocate. Uncertainty is the defendant’s only bargaining chip, and confessing gives it away.

The harder and more unsettling point concerns innocence. It feels perverse to say that innocent people should fear talking more than guilty ones. Yet the data on wrongful convictions shows exactly this. A substantial portion of exonerated defendants made incriminating statements, confessed, or pled guilty. These are not abstract statistics. They reflect predictable psychological pressures. Interrogations are long. They are stressful. They exploit fatigue, confusion, and the human desire to cooperate. Suspects are fed details, assured that honesty will help, and persuaded that they are assisting in identifying the real culprit. Juries, meanwhile, treat confessions as uniquely probative. Once a confession exists, other evidence is interpreted through it. Innocence becomes an uphill argument.

Even without outright coercion, the risk of error is enormous. Perfect recall under pressure is a fantasy. Innocent people misremember times, distances, and sequences. They speak too broadly. They fill gaps. They guess. When any detail later turns out to be wrong, the narrative shifts from mistake to deception. A small inconsistency becomes evidence of consciousness of guilt. The problem is not lying. It is being human. The law, however, is unforgiving of ordinary cognitive limits when they are narrated by an officer in uniform reading from notes.

Truth itself can incriminate. This is perhaps the most philosophically important point, and it explains why the Fifth Amendment protects the innocent. You can answer every question honestly and still help complete the prosecution’s puzzle. Admitting dislike can supply motive. Describing a prior argument can establish intent. Placing yourself near a location can narrow opportunity. None of this requires falsehood. It requires only that your truthful statements be combined with other evidence you may not even know exists. The privilege against self-incrimination is not a license to lie. It is a recognition that truth can be dangerous when the state controls the narrative.

That narrative control is institutional, not personal. Police notes and testimony carry structural credibility. In court, the defendant sits beside a lawyer, already marked as someone who needs defending. The officer appears as a professional witness. When the officer recounts the defendant’s own words, recorded and framed through official notes, the story acquires an aura of objectivity. Even when no one lies, the system privileges one version over the other. Disputes about what was said rarely end in the defendant’s favor.

Talking also creates new crimes. When investigators cannot prove the underlying allegation, they often pursue charges for false statements, obstruction, or inconsistency. High-profile examples are not anomalies. They illustrate a rule. Once you speak, you are exposed to liability not only for what you did but for how accurately you recount it. Police are legally permitted to deceive during questioning. You are not permitted to be wrong. This is not an even exchange.

All of this occurs against the backdrop of an unlevel playing field by design. Modern criminal law is vast. Ordinary citizens routinely violate technical rules without knowing it. Silence is uncomfortable. People want to tell their story. Officers are trained to exploit that impulse. Time favors the state. The suspect wants to leave. The officer is content to wait. The environment is engineered to extract statements, not to neutrally discover truth.

Perhaps the most counterintuitive danger arises with alibis. A truthful alibi seems like the strongest form of exculpation. Yet if any evidence later contradicts it, even mistakenly, the alibi becomes a lie in the eyes of the jury. The prosecution gains a powerful narrative of deception layered on top of the original charge. What would have been a thin case becomes a compelling one, built largely from the defendant’s own words.

The conclusion follows with uncomfortable clarity. Speaking to police is volunteering to play an away game under rules you did not write and cannot change. Your helpful statements are unlikely to help you later. Your harmful statements can be used immediately. Your memory will be imperfect. The officer’s notes will be authoritative. Even truth can be weaponized. The rational response is not defiance but restraint.

Identify yourself if required by law. Then say you are invoking your right to remain silent and that you want a lawyer. Then stop talking. This advice is not cynical. It is constitutional realism. The Fifth Amendment is not an admission of guilt. It is an acknowledgment of how power, incentives, and human cognition actually operate. Taking it seriously means using it or facing the ugly consequences of ignoring it and not putting it into practice. Period. End of story. Full stop already. You have preciously been warned.

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