Influencer Alix Earle, a self-described ‘hot mess,’ has legions of online haters. Greg Doherty/Getty Images for RevolveJessica Maddox, University of Alabama and Jess Rauchberg, Seton Hall University Since 2020, content creator Remi Bader had accumulated millions of TikTok followers by offering her opinions on the fits of popular clothing brands as a plus-size woman. In 2023, however, Bader appeared noticeably thinner. When some fans asked her whether she’d undergone a procedure, she blocked them. Later that year, she announced that she would no longer be posting about her body. Enter snark subreddits. On Reddit, these forums exist for the sole purpose of calling out internet celebrities, whether they’re devoted to dinging the late-night antics of self-described “hot mess” Alix Earle or venting over Savannah and Cole LaBrant, a family vlogging couple who misleadingly implied that their daughter had cancer. While the internet is synonymous with fan culture, snark subreddits aren’t for enthusiasts. Instead, snarkers are anti-fans who hone the art of hating.Remi Bader attends New York Fashion Week on Feb. 10, 2025.Dimitrios Kambouris/Getty Images for Tory Burch After Bader’s refusal to talk about her weight loss, the Remi Bader snark subreddit blew up. Posters weren’t upset that Bader had lost weight or had stopped posting about her body size. Instead, they believed Bader the influencer, who’d built her brand on plus-size inclusion in fashion, wasn’t being straight with her fans and needed to be taken to account. It worked. During a March 2025 appearance on Khloe Kardashian’s podcast, Bader finally revealed that she had, in fact, had weight-loss surgery. Some critics see snarkers as a big problem and understandably denounce their tendency to harass, body shame and try to cancel influencers. But completely dismissing snark glosses over the fact that it can serve a purpose. In our work as social media researchers, we’ve written about how snark can actually be thought of as a way to call out bad actors in the largely unregulated world of influencing and content creation.
Grassroots policing
Before there were influencers, there were bloggers. While bloggers covered topics that ranged from entertainment to politics to travel, parenting and fashion bloggers probably have the closest connection to today’s influencers. After Google introduced AdSense in 2003, bloggers were easily able to run advertising on their websites. Then brands saw an opportunity. Parenting and fashion bloggers had large, loyal followings. Many readers felt an intimate connection to their favorite bloggers, who seemed more like friends than out-of-touch celebrity spokespersons. Brands realized they could send bloggers their products in exchange for a write-up or a feature. Furthermore, advertisers understood that parenting and fashion bloggers didn’t have to adhere to the same industry regulations or code of ethics as most news media outlets, such as disclosing payments or conflicts of interest. This changed the dynamic between bloggers and their fans, who wondered whether bloggers could be trusted if they were sometimes being paid to promote certain products. In response, websites emerged in 2009 to critique bloggers. “Get Off My Internets,” for example, fashioned itself as a “quality control watchdog” to provide constructive criticism and call out deceptive practices. As Instagram and YouTube became more popular, the subreddit “r/Blogsnark” launched in 2015 to critique early influencers, in addition to bloggers.
Few guardrails in place
Today the influencer industry has a valuation of over US$250 billion in the U.S. alone, and it’s on track to be worth over $500 billion by 2027. Yet there are few regulations in place for influencers. A few laws have emerged to protect child influencers, and the U.S. Federal Trade Commission has established legal guidelines for sponsored content. That said, the influencing industry remains rife with exploitation. It goes both ways: Corporations can exploit influencers. For example, a 2021 study found that Black influencers receive below-market offers compared with white influencers.Savannah and Cole LaBrant came under fire for implying that their daughter had cancer, in what their critics called a ploy for attention.Danielle Del Valle/Getty Images for Lionsgate Likewise, influencers can deceive or exploit their followers. They might use unrealistic body filters to appear thinner than they are. They could hide who’s paying them. They may promote health misinformation such as the controversial ParaGuard cleanse, a fake treatment pushed by wellness influencers that claimed to rid its users of parasites. Or, in the case of Remi Bader, they might gain a huge following by promoting body positivity, only to conceal a weight-loss procedure from their fans. For disappointed fans or followers who feel burned, snark can seem like the only regulatory guardrail in an industry that has gone largely unchecked. Think of snark as a Better Business Bureau for the untamable world of influencing – a form of accountability that brings attention to the scammers and hustlers.
Keeping it real
Todays’s snark exists at the intersection of gossip and cancel culture. Though cancel culture certainly has its faults, we approach cancel culture in our writing as a worthy tool that allows audiences to hold the powerful accountable. For example, communities of color have joined forces to call out racists, as they did in 2024 when they exposed lifestyle influencer Brooke Schofield’s anti-Black tweets. Influencers build trust with their audiences based on being “real” and relatable. But there’s nothing preventing them from breaking that trust, and snarkers can swoop in to point out bad behavior or hypocrisy. Within the competitive world of family vlogging, snarkers see themselves as doing more than stirring the pot. They’re truth-tellers who bring injustices to light, such as abuse and child labor exploitation. Some of this exposure is paying off, with more and more states introducing and passing family vlogger laws that require children to one day receive a portion of their parents’ earnings or restrict how often children can appear in their parents’ videos. Yes, snark can veer into cyberbullying. But that shouldn’t discount its value as a tool for transparency. Influencers are ultimately brands. They sell audiences ideas, lifestyles and products. When people feel as if they’ve been misled, we think they have every right to call it out. Jessica Maddox, Assistant Professor of Journalism and Creative Media, University of Alabama and Jess Rauchberg, Assistant Professor of Communication Technologies, Seton Hall University This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
Pat Finn: Remembering the Familiar Face Who Made Us Laugh
Pat Finn, the familiar face from The Middle, Seinfeld, Friends, and Toyota commercials, has passed away at 60. We remember his career, legacy, and lasting impact.
Pat Finn: Remembering the Familiar Face Who Made Us Laugh
Many people may not have known his name right away, but they knew his face. Pat Finn was one of those rare actors who quietly became part of America’s shared television experience—popping up in beloved sitcoms, memorable commercials, and scene-stealing guest roles for more than three decades.
In December 2025, Finn passed away at the age of 60 after a battle with bladder cancer, leaving behind a body of work that continues to resonate with audiences who grew up watching network television’s golden era of sitcoms.
A Career Built on Consistency and Craft
Pat Finn wasn’t a headline-chasing star. Instead, he was the definition of a working actor—someone whose talent and reliability kept him in steady demand across generations of television.
He appeared in some of the most recognizable shows in TV history, including Seinfeld, Friends, Murphy Brown, 3rd Rock from the Sun, That ’70s Show, The King of Queens, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and The Goldbergs. To many fans, he was especially memorable as Bill Norwood, the occasionally awkward and often hilarious boss on ABC’s long-running sitcom The Middle.
These weren’t flashy roles—but they were essential ones. Finn had a gift for grounding comedy in reality, playing characters who felt like people you actually knew: coworkers, neighbors, or that guy you’d see at the store every week.
From Chicago Improv to National Screens
Born in Evanston, Illinois, Pat Finn came out of Chicago’s legendary improv scene, training and performing with The Second City and the iO Theater. That background gave him sharp comedic instincts and impeccable timing—skills that translated effortlessly to television.
He was also a contemporary and friend of Chris Farley, and like many performers from that era, Finn carried the Chicago improv tradition of generosity, collaboration, and humility throughout his career.
The Toyota Commercials—and Being “That Guy”
In later years, a new generation came to recognize Finn from Toyota commercials, particularly regional dealership ads. Once again, he became “that guy” everyone recognized but couldn’t quite place—a testament to just how deeply embedded he was in pop culture.
Commercial work is often overlooked, but Finn approached it with the same professionalism and charm as his television roles, making even short appearances feel authentic and memorable.
A Teacher, Mentor, and Family Man
Beyond acting, Pat Finn was also a teacher and mentor, sharing his experience with aspiring performers and encouraging young actors to respect the craft rather than chase fame.
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He was married to his wife, Donna, for more than three decades, and together they raised three children. In tributes following his passing, family and colleagues alike emphasized not just his talent, but his kindness, humor, and generosity.
A Quiet Legacy That Lasts
Pat Finn’s passing is a reminder that television history isn’t shaped only by superstars. It’s built by dependable, talented performers who show up, deliver, and elevate every project they touch.
If you’ve ever laughed at a scene and later realized, “Hey, I’ve seen that guy before,” there’s a good chance it was Pat Finn.
His work lives on—in reruns, streaming libraries, commercials, and the memories of audiences who didn’t always know his name, but never forgot his presence.
Rest in peace, Pat Finn. And thank you for the laughs.
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The Viral Backlash: How a Chef, a TikTok Influencer, and One Moment Changed a San Francisco Restaurant
TikTok Influencer vs Chef: A viral TikTok confrontation between Chef Luke Sung and a food influencer led to backlash, a restaurant closure, and a major rebrand in San Francisco.
The Viral Backlash: How a Chef, a TikTok Influencer, and One Moment Changed a San Francisco Restaurant
In mid-2025, a San Francisco restaurant found itself at the center of a viral controversy—not because of its food, but because of an interaction between a well-known chef and a TikTok food influencer. The incident sparked a broader conversation about power, professionalism, and the growing influence of social media in the hospitality industry.
What Happened at Kis Cafe
The incident involved Chef Luke Sung, a respected name in the Bay Area culinary scene, and a TikTok micro-influencer known online as @itskarlabb. The influencer had been invited to Kis Cafe for a planned promotional collaboration. According to the influencer, during her visit the chef questioned her follower count—around 15,000 at the time—and allegedly implied that her audience was not the “type of people” who would dine at his restaurant. She later described the exchange as humiliating and dismissive. After leaving the restaurant, she shared her experience in a TikTok video. The post quickly went viral, gaining millions of views and triggering a wave of online backlash.
The Internet Reacts
Although the influencer initially did not name the restaurant or the chef, internet users quickly identified Kis Cafe. The restaurant’s review pages were flooded with criticism, and the incident became a flashpoint in online discussions about elitism, influencer culture, and accountability. Within days, Kis Cafe issued a public apology and announced that Luke Sung was no longer affiliated with the restaurant in any capacity.
Chef Luke Sung Responds
Chef Sung later released a public apology, acknowledging that his behavior was condescending and inappropriate. He stated that there were no excuses for the way he treated the influencer and accepted responsibility for the incident. The apology, however, did little to slow the momentum of public reaction.
The Restaurant Closes — and Reopens
Not long after the controversy, Kis Cafe announced it would close. In the months that followed, the space reopened under a new name, Bosque, with new leadership and no involvement from Sung. The rebrand was seen as a clear attempt to move forward and distance the business from the viral episode.
The Influencer Effect
Meanwhile, the influencer at the center of the controversy saw her follower count surge dramatically, growing from a modest audience into hundreds of thousands of followers almost overnight. The incident highlighted the real-world impact that even “micro-influencers” can have—and how a single moment, captured and shared, can reshape careers and businesses.
Why This Story Matters
This controversy underscored a major cultural shift: social media is no longer separate from real-world industries like dining and hospitality. Online platforms can amplify personal experiences into powerful narratives with lasting consequences. As of early 2026, the restaurant operates under a new identity, the chef has stepped away from the project entirely, and the influencer continues to grow her platform. The episode remains a cautionary tale about professionalism, respect, and the power of digital voices. Get The Knowledge. More stories like this are available at STM Daily News.
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Brigitte Bardot defined the modern woman and defied social norms
Ben McCann, University of Adelaide Brigitte Bardot’s death, at the age of 91, brings to a close one of the most extraordinary careers in post-war French cultural life. Best known as an actress, she was also a singer, a fashion icon, an animal rights activist and a symbol of France’s sexual liberation. Famous enough to be known by her initials, B.B. symbolised a certain vision of French femininity – rebellious and sensual, yet vulnerable. Her impact on beauty standards and French national identity was profound. At her peak, she rivalled Marilyn Monroe in global fame and recognition. Simone de Beauvoir, France’s leading feminist writer, famously wrote in 1959 that Bardot “appears as a force of nature, dangerous so long as she remains untamed”.
A star is born
Bardot was born in 1934 to a well-off Parisian family. Raised in a strict Catholic household, she studied ballet at the Conservatoire de Paris with hopes of becoming a professional dancer.Brigitte Bardot, pictured here in 1946, studied ballet as a child.Roger Viollet via Getty Images Her striking looks led her to modelling. By 14, she was appearing in Elle magazine, catching the eye of director Roger Vadim, whom she married in 1952. She began acting in the early 1950s and her appearance as Juliette in Vadim’s And God Created Woman (Et Dieu… créa la femme, 1956) put her on the map. Bardot was instantly catapulted to international stardom. Vadim presented his wife as the ultimate expression of youthful, erotic freedom that both shocked and captivated French audiences. Watching this relatively tame film today, it’s difficult to imagine just how taboo-breaking Bardot’s performance was. But in sleepy Catholic, conservative 1950s France, it set new norms for on-screen sexuality. The film became a global phenomenon. Critics loved it, but censors and religious groups grew nervous.
An 60s icon
Bardot’s lack of formal training as an actress paradoxically became part of her appeal: she adopted a spontaneous acting approach, as much physical as verbal. She was stunning in Contempt (Le Mépris, 1963), Jean-Luc Godard’s masterpiece about a crumbling marriage. Godard used her beauty and fame both as spectacle and critique. The film’s most famous sequence was a 31-minute conversation between Bardot and her co-star Michel Piccoli. Bardot was never better. In Henri-Georges Clouzot’s intense courtroom drama The Truth (La Vérité, 1960), she showcased her dramatic range playing a young woman on trial for the murder of her lover.Bardot in a poster for The Truth, 1960.LMPC via Getty Images In 1965, she co-starred with Jeanne Moreau in Louis Malle’s Long Live Maria (Viva Maria), a rare female buddy film that blended comedy and political satire. Bardot’s anarchic energy remains a dazzling feat. A Very Private Affair (Vie privée, 1962) saw her portray a woman consumed by fame and chased by the media. The plotline was eerily predictive of Bardot’s own future. She popularised fashion trends like the choucroute hairstyle and ballet flats. The Bardot neckline – off-the-shoulder tops and dresses – was named after her. She even wore pink gingham at her 1959 wedding.
Allure and provocation
Bardot’s star appeal lay in her contradictions. She appeared simultaneously natural and provocative, spontaneous and calculated. Her dishevelled glamour and effortless sexuality helped construct the archetype of the modern “sex kitten”. She famously said “it is better to be unfaithful than to be faithful without wanting to be”. Throwing off the shackles of bourgeois morality, Bardot epitomised a commitment to emotional and sexual freedom. Her turbulent love life was a case in point. She was married four times, with dozens of stormy relationships and extra-marital affairs along the way. Forever immortalised as a free-spirited ingénue, Bardot was a muse for filmmakers, artists and musicians, from Andy Warhol to Serge Gainsbourg. Later on, Kate Moss, Amy Winehouse and Elle Fanning mentioned Bardot as an inspiration. Famously, Bardot never succumbed to cosmetic surgery. As she once noted:
Women should embrace ageing because, at the end of the day, it’s much more beautiful to have a grandmother with white hair who looks like an elderly lady than to have a grandmother who’s bleached, dyed, and […] who looks much older but also really unhappy.
Life after the movies
Bardot retired from acting in 1973, aged only 39, citing disillusionment with fame. “It suffocated and destroyed me”, she said, about the film industry. She shifted her attention to animal rights, founding the Brigitte Bardot Foundation in 1986. She became an uncompromising, vocal activist, campaigning against animal cruelty, fur farming, whaling and bullfighting. But Bardot courted controversy from the mid-1990s for her far-right political views, remarks about Islam and immigration and repeated convictions for inciting racial hatred. She publicly defended disgraced actor Gérard Depardieu and pushed back on the #MeToo movement in France. Such statements damaged her reputation, especially outside France, and created a troubling image: the once-liberating sex symbol now associated with nationalist conservatism. While she never identified as a feminist, her unapologetic autonomy, early retirement and outspoken views led some to re-evaluate her as a figure of proto-feminist rebellion. France gradually began to turn against Bardot, bothered by her outspoken views. But some applauded her couldn’t-care-less attitude and unwillingness to play by the rules. Ultimately, by rejecting fame on her own terms, she parlayed her 50s free-spiritedness into a bold stand against conformity and societal norms. Late in life, she told Danièle Thompson, the writer-director of the 2023 mini-series about her career, “I don’t understand why the whole world is still talking about me”. The answer is simple – Bardot continues to fascinate us, flaws and all. Ben McCann, Associate Professor of French Studies, University of Adelaide This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
