Creators Finally Realize Ad Revenue Is a Festering Pile of Shit
So the “creator economy”—that bullshit buzzword venture capitalists use to justify throwing money at people who film themselves eating spicy noodles—has finally figured out what anyone with two brain cells to rub together could’ve told them five fucking years ago: relying on ad revenue from tech platforms is about as stable as a Windows 98 server running a nuclear power plant.
According to some TechCrunch podcast that probably features three people who’ve never had a real job, these digital panhandlers are now ditching ad dollars for real businesses. Chocolate bars. Energy drinks. Fucking fintech acquisitions. Because nothing says “I’m a serious entrepreneur” like slapping your name on a Hershey’s knockoff and pretending you’re Warren Buffett.
Let’s be clear: MrBeast could sell used toilet paper to his audience and they’d buy it by the crate. Feastables isn’t a business strategy; it’s a cult merchandise operation with FDA approval. Logan Paul and KSI’s Prime drink is just Gatorade for people who think reading is a conspiracy. And the fintech moves? That’s where it gets really hilarious. Some YouTuber who got famous for unboxing toys now thinks he can disrupt banking. Sure, champ. And I’m the fucking Pope.
The platforms have been screwing these idiots for years. YouTube’s algorithm changes more often than I change my underwear (which is daily, because unlike some developers, I have standards). One day you’re making six figures, the next day you’re demonetized because a bot flagged your video on “how to grow tomatoes” as supporting terrorism. Twitter’s ad revenue imploded faster than a dot-com bubble startup. TikTok’s about to be banned because politicians think it’s turning kids into Chinese spies or some xenophobic bollocks.
And these “creators” are surprised. Fucking SURPRISED. They built their entire income on someone else’s platform—the digital equivalent of sharecropping—and act shocked when the landlord decides to burn the fields. I’ve seen smarter decisions from users who click “Yes” on every popup they see.
The smart ones are diversifying. The smarter ones never relied on ads in the first place. But the best part? Watching these platforms panic as their content slaves become competitors. YouTube’s probably shitting bricks knowing their top earners would rather sell candy bars than deal with ContentID claims and adpocalypses. Good. Fuck ’em.
This whole “creator economy” was always a house of cards built on wishful thinking and VC cocaine. At least chocolate bars have tangible value—unlike a pre-revenue fintech startup run by a 22-year-old whose only qualification is having a million Instagram followers. The chocolate might give you the shits, but the fintech will take your house.
Related anecdote: Some “content creator” called support last week because his Shopify store—selling “influencer-branded” candles that smell like desperation—crashed during a launch. He had 50,000 people trying to buy his overpriced wax and his site was on a $5/month hosting plan. When I explained he needed actual infrastructure, he asked if I could “just make it work for the next two hours.” I told him I’d do it for 10% of his revenue. He hung up. The site stayed down. His “fans” rioted on Twitter. I laughed so hard I spilled coffee on my keyboard. Worth it.
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