Why Getting Canceled is a Fucking Goldmine
Some public figure says or does something deeply fucking stupid slash offensive.
There’s a swift and fiery backlash on social media, and suddenly they’re persona non grata.
Their reputation is in tatters, their career prospects look bleak, and they retreat from the public eye, licking their wounds.
Or do they?
Because here’s the thing. These supposedly “cancelled” individuals, the ones who’ve been “silenced” and cast out from polite society, keep popping up in some pretty fucking high-profile places. New York Times columns. Netflix specials. Bestselling books. Major podcasts.
For people who’ve supposedly been muzzled and banished to the hinterlands of cultural irrelevance, they sure seem to have a lot of prominent platforms from which to share their thoughts.
If we dig a little deeper, if we peel back the layers of outrage and indignation and moral posturing, we start to see the underlying mechanics at work. And those mechanics reveal a truth that’s both obvious and deeply counterintuitive: in many cases, getting “cancelled” is the best thing that can happen to a (certain kind of) public figure’s career.
Consider the nature of attention. We’re bombarded with stimuli constantly — news alerts, social media notifications, emails, texts, ads — all vying for our precious and limited attention. In this environment, standing out is incredibly difficult. Being noticed, truly noticed, is like winning the lottery. And in an attention-based economy, any attention is good attention.
When someone gets “cancelled,” what happens? Suddenly, everyone’s talking about them. Their name is trending on Twitter. They’re the subject of countless think pieces and hot takes. News anchors are debating their actions. Late-night hosts are cracking jokes at their expense or defending their right to be a dickhead like it’s life or death. For a brief, intense period, they become the center of the cultural conversation.
And that attention? It’s pure gold.
Because the thing about humans — we’re curious creatures. When we hear that someone’s been “cancelled,” a part of us wants to know why. We want to understand what they did or said that was so terrible. We want to judge for ourselves whether the punishment fits the crime. And in that curiosity lies opportunity.
If you’re a publisher or a streaming service or a media outlet, what do you want more than anything? Eyeballs. Clicks. Viewers. And what better way to get those than by giving a platform to someone everyone’s talking about? Someone controversial. Someone who’s been “silenced.”
It’s a win-win situation. The cancelled individual gets a chance to tell their warped side of the story, to rehabilitate their image (or far more likely, to double down on their fuckery). And the platform that hosts them? They get a massive surge of attention, engagement, and yes, revenue.
When we see someone being attacked or ostracized by the group, a part of us — often subconsciously — wants to hear them out. It’s a remnant of our tribal past, a whisper from our ancestors reminding us that today’s outcast could be tomorrow’s ally.
This instinct creates a built-in audience for the “cancelled” individual. People who might never have paid attention to them before are now curious. Even those who disagree with them might tune in, if only to fuel their outrage. And of course, there are always those who see themselves as free speech warriors, eager to support anyone they perceive as a victim of “cancel culture.”
The result? A ready-made fanbase, passionate and engaged, waiting to consume whatever content the “silenced” individual produces next.
But wait, there’s more. (Isn’t there always?) Getting “cancelled” doesn’t just provide attention and a curious audience. It also gives the individual in question something that’s incredibly valuable in our current cultural landscape: a narrative.
We’re suckers for a good story. We love narratives of redemption, of underdogs fighting back, of individuals standing up against the mob. Getting “cancelled” instantly casts someone in the role of the underdog, the rebel, the truth-teller who dared to speak out and paid the price.
Whether this narrative is accurate or not is beside the point. What matters is that it’s compelling. It gives the “cancelled” individual a ready-made arc for their comeback story. They can position themselves as fighters for free speech, as victims of mob mentality, as brave souls willing to say what others are afraid to.
This narrative is marketable. It’s something they can sell to publishers, to streaming services, to anyone looking for content that will generate buzz and controversy. It’s a hook, a angle, a unique selling proposition in a crowded marketplace of ideas.
And let’s not forget the power of tribalism in all this. In our increasingly polarized world, taking a stand — any stand — automatically aligns you with a certain group. Get “cancelled” for expressing a particular viewpoint, and suddenly you’re a hero to everyone who shares that viewpoint (or who simply opposes “cancel culture” on principle).
This tribalism can translate directly into financial support. We’ve seen it time and time again — someone gets “cancelled,” and their supporters rally around them. They buy their books, subscribe to their Substacks, fund their Patreons. What was once merely a fanbase becomes a cause, a movement.
Now, I can almost hear the objections forming. “But wait,” you might be saying, “surely there are some people who really do get cancelled, who really do lose everything?” There absolutely are individuals who face serious, lasting consequences for their actions or words. People who lose jobs, relationships, reputations, with no phoenix-like rise from the ashes.
But those aren’t the people we’re talking about when we discuss “cancelled” individuals with New York Times columns and Netflix specials. The ones who truly get “cancelled” — in the sense of facing real, lasting consequences — tend to be those without the resources, connections, or pre-existing platform to turn their cancellation into an opportunity.
No, the “cancelled” individuals we’re discussing are, by and large, already privileged. They’re people who had a platform to begin with, who had connections in media and entertainment, who had the resources to weather the storm of cancellation and come out the other side.
The reason these “silenced” voices keep popping up in prominent places is simple: they were never really silenced to begin with. The entire concept of them being “cancelled” was, in many ways, an illusion.
An illusion that, ironically, gave them more power, more attention, and more opportunities than they might have had otherwise.
Now, this isn’t to say that these individuals don’t face real backlash or criticism. They absolutely do. The initial wave of cancellation can be intense, overwhelming, even traumatic. But for those with the resources and savvy to ride it out, that wave can carry them to new heights of fame and success.
It’s a dynamic that reveals some uncomfortable truths about our culture. About the way we consume media, the way we engage with controversy, the way we conceptualize free speech and consequences. It forces us to confront the reality that our attempts to hold people accountable can backfire, amplifying the very voices we sought to diminish.
In a world where attention is currency, even negative attention can be alchemized into gold. Where there’s demand — for controversy, for rebellion, for “unheard” voices — supply will inevitably follow.
In this bizarre, backward world we’ve created, sometimes the loudest voices are the ones claiming to be silenced. The most prominent platforms go to those decrying their lack of a platform. And the ultimate privilege? It might just be the ability to turn cancellation into opportunity.
It’s a strange game we’re playing, this dance of outrage and redemption, of cancellation and comeback. But as long as there’s attention to be gained, as long as there’s money to be made, as long as there are curious minds eager to hear from the ostracized and the “silenced,” the game will go on.
And those New York Times columns and Netflix specials? They’re not bugs in the system. They’re features. They’re the logical endpoint of a culture that values controversy over consensus, that feeds on conflict, that can’t look away from a good comeback story — even if that story is more fiction than fact.
