Barriers, Bullsh*t, and the Paywall of Doom

The truth isn’t free, but misinformation is.

We've all been there. You're scrolling, minding your own business, when someone posts what looks like the most critical, can't-miss article of the day. You click, ready to be informed or outraged or both, and BAM, you hit it. THE PAYWALL. A digital velvet rope with a smug little pop-up that says, "This truth is premium content. Unlock for just $9.99 a month, or $99 a year if you're the responsible type."

Unless you're a journalist, a researcher, or just incredibly stubborn, you probably close the tab and move on. The headline might linger in your memory, but the nuance, the context, the actual point, is gone, trapped behind a login screen and a billing portal.

But here's the truth: I'm not even mad about me. I've got Wi-Fi and a library card. I can afford the occasional subscription, or at least find a friend who can copy and paste for me. This isn't about people like me. It's about the people who don't have those options: those in rural towns, forgotten zip codes, overworked households, and digital dead zones where public libraries are closing, schools are underfunded, and the only news that reaches them is what's free and already filtered through outrage.

And in those places, Rush Limbaugh wasn't just popular, he was foundational.

Missouri's own. Cape Girardeau's most toxic export. The man who turned political ranting into a business model and made millions weaponizing sarcasm, racism, and rage. His golden microphone became a conduit for misinformation, broadcasting directly into cars, kitchens, waiting rooms, and workplaces. No subscription needed. No login. Just full-volume grievance with a wink and a chuckle.

He wasn't sharing news. He didn't ask people to question power; he gave them a scapegoat and told them to feel good about blaming it. He was free, accessible, and relentless. And he filled the space that truth had abandoned, truth that had become too slow, too polite, or too expensive to keep up.

What replaced him? Not much. The loud got louder. The lies got slicker. The good journalism that might challenge any of it stayed behind paywalls, begging for clicks and ad revenue. And when the truth costs money but the lie comes bundled with your Facebook feed, it's not hard to guess which one spreads faster.

Paywalls don't just block information; they imply that knowledge is not meant for the general public. That if you don't have the money, you don't get the story. If your internet is slow, your phone is old, or your time is short, then the whole picture isn't yours to see.

Access is about more than Wi-Fi. It's about literacy, time, language, trust, and even geography. If Amazon doesn't deliver to your house, you aren't getting the Sunday New York Times either. If you're working a double shift and caring for your parents and your kids, you don't have thirty minutes to navigate a paywall maze to read one op-ed about climate policy.

We like to say that information is power, but we've turned it into a product. And when power becomes a product, only the privileged get to hold it.

So what do we do? We dismantle the gates. We fund local journalism. We support libraries like they're clinics. We make public-interest media truly public. We print it. We hand it out. We build networks that don't depend on algorithms or subscriptions. We flood laundromats, food banks, barbershops, bus stops, and break rooms with the kind of facts that can't be silenced or swiped away.

Because if the truth is paywalled, but disinformation is free, we shouldn't be surprised when people believe the lie.

Let's stop gatekeeping reality.

Let's make truth ordinary, accessible, and everywhere.

Let's make it so loud, so clear, and so human that even the loudest voices of opposition would have to shout to be heard over it.