JOE ROGAN: THE IDIOT KING OF "JUST ASKING QUESTIONS"

When Bill Murray appeared on The Joe Rogan Experience recently, he ended up in an unexpectedly emotional moment. While discussing Hunter S. Thompson, Rogan played a clip from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas — Johnny Depp’s mesmerizing portrayal of Thompson, rambling away at his typewriter, laying out the fractured spirit of the 1960s. Murray, who played Thompson in Where the Buffalo Roam and knew the man personally, teared up.

“Thinking of Hunter and the words he said, but seeing Johnny and how close Johnny and Hunter became... It’s a really beautiful piece,” Murray said, his voice cracking.

For a brief moment, it felt like something rare happened on Rogan’s podcast: authenticity. A real emotional crack in the usual posturing and bluster. But like clockwork, Rogan pivoted from that genuine moment back into his favorite subject — his endless obsession with division, conspiracies, and his own self-importance.

“We don’t get a break,” Rogan complained, launching into his tired sermon about media manipulation, social decay, and the supposed threat of liberal dominance. “We don’t get a break from these people.”

Rogan’s performance was predictable, but what really stood out was his reverence for Hunter S. Thompson — an obsession that’s as misguided as it is embarrassing.

THE IDOL WORSHIP THAT MISSES THE POINT

Rogan has spent years mythologizing Thompson. He talks about Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail like it's the Rosetta Stone of anti-establishment rebellion, name-drops Thompson’s drug use as if it's a personality trait, and treats gonzo journalism as if it’s just a license to ramble without consequence. But here’s the problem: Rogan fundamentally misunderstands what made Thompson great.

Thompson’s writing was chaotic, but never directionless. He was a journalist first — a writer obsessed with exposing corruption, power, and the grotesque machinery of American politics. His wildest rants always had a purpose, and beneath the drugs and profanity was someone fiercely dedicated to telling the truth. Thompson didn’t wallow in paranoia — he identified real threats and tore them to shreds with brutal precision.

Rogan, on the other hand, is the antithesis of that. His version of “truth-telling” is lazy skepticism wrapped in faux-rebellion. Rogan’s whole persona is built around “just asking questions,” a phrase that has become a poisoned well for conspiracy theorists, reactionaries, and charlatans. He doesn’t investigate corruption — he just platforms lunatics who shout about it the loudest.

While Thompson burned his anger at corrupt politicians, Nixon’s treachery, and the war machine, Rogan funnels his rage downward. He amplifies resentment toward marginalized groups, stokes fear about imaginary threats, and sells his audience on the idea that they’re the ones being victimized. Where Thompson attacked power, Rogan cozies up to it — giving reactionary grifters, tech billionaires, and neo-authoritarians a warm, welcoming platform under the banner of “free speech.”

If Thompson were alive today, Rogan’s podcast would be his personal hell — a swamp of half-baked ideas and bad-faith arguments, all wrapped in the lazy illusion of intellectual curiosity.

WHY PEOPLE ARE DRAWN TO JOE ROGAN

To be fair, Rogan’s popularity isn’t just about gullibility or reactionary politics. There’s a reason millions of people flock to his podcast, and it's not all bad.

Rogan has a rare gift for conversation. His style is loose and unscripted, and in an era where soundbites dominate, that’s refreshing. He’s approachable — more like a buddy at the bar than a polished interviewer. He’s genuinely curious, and when that curiosity is focused on worthwhile subjects — fitness, comedy, mental health — he can create engaging conversations that feel honest and personal. Rogan’s long-form format gives guests space to expand on ideas, something you rarely get in traditional media.

The problem is Rogan doesn’t know where curiosity ends and recklessness begins. He gives the same attention to credible scientists as he does to conspiracy cranks and grifters. He wants to act like a neutral observer — a guy who’s “just asking questions” — but there’s no such thing as neutrality when you’re amplifying bad ideas to millions of listeners. Rogan’s platform has power, and instead of wielding it responsibly, he throws gasoline on the dumbest fires imaginable.

His strength — his conversational style — becomes his greatest weakness when he starts nodding along to lunatics who say vaccines are a mind-control plot or that trans people are destroying civilization. Rogan’s format works best when he's out of his depth, asking real experts to explain complex topics. But when he's in his comfort zone — endless rants about censorship, "cancel culture," and Elon Musk’s billionaire wisdom — he’s insufferable.

HUNTER WOULDN’T JUST LOATHE ROGAN — HE’D RIP HIM TO PIECES

The idea that Thompson would admire Joe Rogan is laughable. Rogan’s constant fearmongering, his bizarre love affair with Elon Musk, and his endless complaints about liberal oppression are everything Thompson despised. Thompson saw paranoia as a weapon of control — something wielded by authoritarians to keep the masses scared and confused. Rogan, ironically, has become one of those tools — a willing pawn in the same machinery of power he claims to resist.

If Thompson had ever found himself on Rogan’s show, the result wouldn’t have been some meeting of two great minds. It would have been a bloodbath — a verbal dissection of Rogan’s lazy thinking, cowardly fence-sitting, and obsession with shallow contrarianism. Thompson didn’t respect people who entertained bad ideas for sport — he tore into them. In his 2003 book, Kingdom of Fear, Thompson wrote:

“We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world — bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully,” Thompson wrote. “We are not just whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts.”

Rogan’s podcast thrives on that hate and fear — a constant drip-feed of paranoia disguised as wisdom. He’s not a rebel, he’s a coward — a man too afraid to stand for anything, so he embraces everything. Vaccine conspiracies, trans panic, climate denial, election fraud nonsense — Rogan doesn’t care whether it's true. He just knows it sells.

JOE ROGAN: THE KING OF COWARDLY CONFUSION

Rogan’s most devoted defenders will insist that he’s not endorsing these ideas — he’s just platforming them. But that’s the problem. Rogan wants the cultural currency of rebellion without the responsibility that comes with it. He wants to play the role of an outsider, all while collecting Spotify’s $200 million paycheck and schmoozing with Trump’s inner circle. He’s a pseudo-outsider, a rich man’s idea of a working-class hero.

For someone so obsessed with Thompson’s legacy, Rogan has learned nothing from it. Thompson understood that the real enemy wasn’t some vague notion of “the establishment” — it was the cynical operators who manipulate fear and anger to keep people distracted while the powerful consolidate control. Rogan, for all his performative rage against mainstream media, has become a key part of that system. He doesn’t challenge power — he launders it, putting a rebellious face on regressive politics.

Joe Rogan thinks he’s Hunter S. Thompson, but he's closer to one of Thompson’s grotesque caricatures — a bloated hustler, peddling paranoia to an audience desperate to feel like they’re part of something bigger. Thompson called out that type in 1972: the carnival barkers and empty-headed tough guys selling rebellion in exchange for a buck.

If Thompson were here today, he'd see Joe Rogan for what he is — a rich fool with a microphone, fumbling through half-baked ideas while pretending to be a prophet.

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