Let me tell you about the last time Hollywood executives cried foul during a merger. It was 2017, and AT&T was buying Time Warner. Every studio head swore regulators would block it, convinced the sky would fall if a telecom giant owned HBO. Seven years later, AT&T spun it off at a loss, HBO Max is a punchline, and the only thing that fell was morale. Now Paramount’s David Ellison is clutching pearls over Warner Bros. Discovery’s “unfair” sale process, and I can’t decide whether to laugh or hand out Oscars for Best Performance in a Corporate Pantomime.

The details read like a rejected Succession subplot. Paramount claims Warner Bros. leadership is tilting the scales toward Netflix, calling their potential deal a “slam dunk” while dismissing Paramount’s bid. Meanwhile, Comcast circles with a stock based proposal that smells suspiciously like NBCUniversal’s leftovers. All three suitors insist they hold the golden ticket, but I remember when AOL bought Time Warner promising “synergy.” That marriage lasted shorter than most Kardashian unions.

Here’s what nobody wants to admit over their artisanal sparkling water. This isn’t about fair play. It’s about Larry Ellison’s $266 billion wallet ensuring his son David gets to play studio mogul. Paramount closed its $8 billion Skydance merger barely five minutes ago, and now wants to swallow Warner whole. The audacity would be admirable if not for the workers whose livelihoods become bargaining chips. When Disney bought Fox, they promised “expansion.” Then they fired 4,000 people. History doesn’t repeat in Hollywood, it gets a sequel budget.

The real comedy unfolds in regulatory Neverland. Paramount claims Netflix receives favorable treatment while European regulators sharpen their knives, completely missing the irony that today’d dealmaking would have triggered antitrust riots twenty years ago. Remember when regulators blocked Blockbuster from buying Hollywood Video in 2005 over monopoly concerns? Now we let four companies control 90 percent of media, wondering why creativity feels suffocated. The Federal Trade Commission today has the spine of a overcooked spaghetti noodle.

Zaslav’s alleged post merger employment fantasies are particularly rich. CEOs always position themselves as indispensable during sales, like realtors insisting they alone can unlock a home’s “potential.” I watched Jamie Dimon play this card during the 2008 crisis, Bob Iger during the Fox deal, and now Zaslav appears to be auditioning. Meanwhile, the Warner Bros. Discovery receptionist probably has better odds of keeping her job than the executives negotiating golden parachutes thicker than Marvel’s script binders.

The human cost stays buried beneath legal letters. Warner Bros. Discovery employs nearly 40,000 people. Paramount’s merged entity would slash redundant roles faster than you can say “synergy savings.” I’ve sat in those all hands meetings where some synergy consultant in $900 sneakers talks about “rightsizing” while the lighting technician next to you calculates their mortgage. These deals aren’t about building empires, they’re about burning villages to consolidate power.

Investors aren’t fooled, just trapped. Paramount’s own proposal would bury the combined company under nearly 3.5x leverage before accounting for Warner’s $25 billion debt. That’s not a business plan, it’s a pyramid scheme with better catering. Bank of America’s note about risk reads like a therapist’s warning before marrying someone with six ex spouses. We do this dance every merger cycle, slap on an investment grade rating, and act shocked when the debt comes due. Ask anyone who owned GE stock before its house of cards collapsed.

Corporate propaganda insists consolidation creates better content. Really? Since Disney acquired Marvel and Star Wars, we’ve gotten 47 superhero sequels and exactly one original idea and even that starred a talking raccoon. HBO used to mean The Sopranos and nuanced storytelling. Now its Max originals include “Thomas the Tank Engine: Blood on the Tracks.” If this is creative synergy, I’ll take the creatively bankrupt indies.

The secret sauce here isn’t strategy, it’s generational vanity. David Ellison could fund a thousand indie films with daddy’s money if he cared about art, but he wants Spielberg’s seat at the Oscars. I once watched a billionaire’s son spend $200 million trying to become a film producer, only to pivot to tech when the reviews came in. Hollywood attracts money like mold attracts moisture, and both eventually rot the foundation.

This isn’t business, it’s ego tennis. When Sumner Redstone fought over Paramount in the 90s, when Cingular battled Verizon for AT&T Wireless, when Microsoft courted Yahoo, the pattern stays identical. Overpay, under deliver, repeat. David Ellison isn’t saving cinema, he’s playing Risk with real countries. The only difference this time is the public isn’t pretending to care. We’re too busy scrolling TikTok while these titans rearrange deck chairs on the Titanic.

Maybe Netflix does deserve Warner Bros. Nothing fits better than the company that killed Blockbuster taking over the carcass of traditional media. It’s poetic, like a tiger eating its trainer. But let’s call this auction what it is. Not capitalism, not strategy, just rich kids fighting over action figures while the rest of us pay for the broken toys.