Recreational Hostility: How Manufactured Outrage Hijacked Our Peace
There is a massive difference between organic drama and manufactured fury, but modern media has made billions convincing us they’re the exact same thing.
The other day, I told Jon I’m completely over rage bait. His reaction was pure confusion: “Like what?”
I pointed straight at our TV habits. Years ago, we’d watch Gordon Ramsay run high-stakes cooking competitions. Gordon was hot-headed and loud, sure, but the engine of the show was genuine craft, pressure, and talent. Over time, that morphed into shows like Kitchen Nightmares, where the entire premise is watching an arrogant owner fail miserably until someone screams at them loud enough to force submission. It’s the Judge Judy playbook: small-stakes disagreements dialed up to an eleven of theatrical hostility because producers know viewers get an adrenaline hit from watching someone get publicly eviscerated.
Compare that to Below Deck—or as we call it, Boats and Hoes. Is there drama? Absolutely. It’s maritime chaos. But having spent years in the hospitality industry—me front of house, John back of house—we love the raw grind of the service industry. That isn’t rage bait; it’s just the natural friction of exhausted people trying to do their jobs. It’s why John won’t touch The Real Housewives with a ten-foot pole. He recognizes the sour taste of people manufacturing screaming matches just to stay relevant.
Yet the addiction to fury creeps in everywhere. Case in point: those First Amendment "auditor" videos John watches on YouTube. Guys storming into post offices and local businesses shoving cameras into clerks' faces, citing obscure regulations like Poster 7, and baiting workers until the cops get called for trespassing. They aren't championing civil liberties; they are manufacturing a confrontation for clicks and ad revenue. They’re weaponizing technicalities just to watch an everyday postal worker crack under pressure.
Why has recreational hostility become our default pastime?
Kindness is a finite, fragile resource in this world, yet we treat it like something cheap while devouring anger by the bucketful. It’s why The Great British Baking Show feels like a balm for the soul. It’s still a competition, but when someone’s chocolate sphere melts or their sponge collapses, the contestant next to them drops their spatula to help. Competition and basic decency are not mutually exclusive.
You don't lose anything by letting someone exist without filming them or screaming at them to prove a point. Choosing curiosity over confrontation, or warmth over a cheap verbal win, creates a ripple effect we desperately need right now. One drop of unexpected grace can reroute someone’s entire day. We don’t need more reasons to be furious; we need the spine to choose kindness.
