In a dramatic defense of free expression, America awoke whispering into a decorative throw pillow after learning a network paused Jimmy Kimmel. The First Amendment reportedly spilled its coffee and asked to speak to a manager. The manager was a ficus, and even it looked nervous.

Elected officials rushed to microphones to reassure the public that free speech remains sacred, especially theirs. They delivered three-hour statements about censorship so loud that everyone briefly lost the ability to hear irony. Pollsters confirmed the country is split into two camps: those furious, and those furious in a different font.

Historians reminded us the nation has survived worse, including laugh tracks, the invention of the bleep, and the time a studio audience clapped for seven straight minutes after a joke about soup. Free speech used to be a torch; now it’s a ring light with feelings. The bald eagle has been fitted for a tiny gag order, purely for symbolic purposes and beak hygiene.

Network executives described the pause as routine schedule maintenance, the content equivalent of clearing cookies, or switching the show to Airplane Mode. Their press release said we hear you even as it audibly beeped itself. Sources confirmed the statement was written by a committee of 14 lawyers, a vibes consultant, and a man named Button who only says no.

Panicked viewers did what any freedom-loving people would do: panic more, but with merch. Big-box stores reported a run on pocket Constitution bulk pack, plus novelty gavel keychains for when you need to sustain an objection at brunch. Etsy sellers hustled out embroidered Free Speech, Some Assembly Required samplers.

Legal scholars calmed no one by explaining that censorship, like mayonnaise, appears in many forms and is often misapplied. One professor waved a flowchart that ended at a rectangle labeled feelings are not subpoenas. Another lawyer tried to cite precedent but was drowned out by a kazoo rendition of Hail to the Chief Punchline.

Wall Street responded by downgrading the national Sense of Proportion to junk status. The Free Speech Index fell sharply before rebounding on rumors of a new monologue ETF. Analysts advised diversifying into sarcasm futures and adverse reaction bonds.

Tech-solutionists promised a fix, announcing a suite of devices to bypass silence. Influencers hawked censorship-proof smart TV antenna, which looks suspiciously like a coat hanger taped to a hope-and-prayer. A startup unveiled an app that translates quiet into crowdsourced outrage, currently in beta and already yelling.

Abroad, allies expressed concern, sending thoughts, prayers, and subtitled reruns. The United Kingdom offered to lend us a panel show where everyone interrupts each other politely. France shrugged so powerfully it knocked over several microphones and at least one beret.

As someone who watches the edit as closely as the ending, I can report the cut looks like a budget note wearing a trench coat. Hype says the sky is falling; I’m still checking if that’s weather or stagecraft. My inbox is full of eagles asking for comment and union representation.

In the meantime, citizens are encouraged to reconstruct a monologue at home using fridge magnets, two raccoons named Setup and Punchline, and a studio audience consisting of your plants. If the laughter sign fails to illuminate, try clapping until sincerity appears. If sincerity fails to appear, replace batteries with perspective.

When the show returns, America will breathe out like a nation that just found its remote in the freezer. Until then, please consult your pocket Constitution bulk pack for instructions on how to assemble a functioning sense of proportion. Spoiler: it’s not in there, but the punchline is.