The slow death of late-night laughter

The announcement that "The Late Show with Stephen Colbert" will end in 2026 made headlines for its business implications. CBS says the decision is economic, but it’s hard to ignore the political backdrop. Colbert has been one of Donald Trump’s most relentless satirical critics, and some suspect the political climate, and the discomfort of skewering certain targets, played a role. The show’s demise feels like part of a larger story: the slow collapse of late-night political comedy.

I’ve been thinking about that from my own small vantage point. Alongside my work as a communications professor and PR consultant, I occasionally perform stand-up comedy. It’s nothing full-time or glamorous, but enough to get in front of a mic and test how much truth people are willing to laugh at.

There was a time I could tell a political joke and no matter where the crowd landed, they’d laugh — maybe reluctantly, maybe uncomfortably, but they’d laugh. These days, I’m more likely to get silence, a groan, or a side-eye from someone wondering if I’ve just revealed what “side” I’m on. Political comedy hasn’t vanished. It’s everywhere, from cable news monologues to TikTok. But something fundamental has shifted. It’s no longer about laughing at power. It’s about proving you’re on the right team.

Late-night TV used to be one of the few places where Americans laughed together. Carson teased both parties. Leno took equal shots. Even Jon Stewart, widely seen as a progressive voice, made a point of skewering hypocrisy wherever he found it. Now, satire is segmented. Colbert, Seth Meyers, John Oliver — brilliant as they are — speak mostly to their own political choir. The audiences tuning in are looking for affirmation as much as amusement.

Some jokes just don’t travel. I once said that climate change is so bad, even the Confederate statues are starting to sweat. That didn’t go over well in a red room. On the other hand, I joked that I wanted more diversity in Congress. An audience member heckled, “You mean ideological diversity?” I said, “No, I meant someone under 80.” That got me a frosty glare in a blue room. Not because the joke is mean. But because everyone was scanning for meaning, trying to decode my intent. Was this a dig at Joe Biden? A jab at Bernie? Was I mocking progressives, or just aging politicians in general? The crowd starts squirming before the punchline even lands.

The same fragmentation is happening to late-night. The old mass audience has splintered into digital niches, with younger viewers streaming clips on YouTube or TikTok rather than watching a network show at 11:30 p.m. The cultural moment that once belonged to a Letterman or a Colbert now belongs to an algorithm. And when a major late-night platform disappears — whether for budget reasons, political unease, or both — it’s not just the host who goes away. It’s one of the few remaining public stages where a joke could cut across lines.

I’m not saying political comedy is dead. If anything, it’s thriving, but in silos. Red comedians play red rooms. Blue comedians play blue rooms. Online, we mock the other side from a safe distance. But I miss the middle space. The one where a well-timed joke could make a crowd unclench, even briefly. Where we could disagree on policy but still agree on a laugh.

We’re not just losing jokes. We’re losing platforms. And if the places where we once laughed together keep disappearing, we may discover that the real punchline is on us.

This guest essay reflects the views of Mark J. Grossman, of Medford, a communications consultant, adjunct professor at Nassau and Suffolk community colleges, and occasional stand-up comic.