Cue the music:
🎶 "I am a real American… fight for the rights of every man…" 🎶

Let’s be real: If you were a kid in the '80s or early '90s, that anthem didn’t just slap—it suplexed your soul.
Hulk Hogan wasn’t a man. He was a movement, a mustachioed manifestation of pure musclebound Americana, dripping in baby oil and moral clarity.

And now, with his passing, we’re left with a complicated grief.
Not over Terry Bollea—the man.
But over Hulkamania—the myth.

This isn’t an attempt to cancel or canonize him.
We know the baggage. The lawsuits. The leaked tapes. The racism. The union-busting.
Terry Bollea was, frankly, a mess in red and yellow.
But what he symbolized? That’s where it gets tricky—and kind of beautiful.

Because in a time before everyone had a hot take, before irony ruled the internet, there was a loud, sweaty, bleach-blonde uncle yelling at you to say your prayers, eat your vitamins, and never give up.

And that meant something.

https://youtu.be/qAmzvTbqFDM?si=0ZvFo1zm-o475YY1

I cried when he lost to the Iron Sheik on TV.
(He didn’t actually lose—but try telling 6-year-old me that in my parents’ bedroom at midnight.)
When he won? I flexed my invisible pythons and strutted around the house like I just leg-dropped international communism.
He was hope, biceps, and American exceptionalism with a tan line.

And yeah—Terry ruined a lot of that over time.
But honestly?
The same way we separated Bill Cosby from Cliff Huxtable…
The way Armstrong pedaled away with our hearts before he blood-doped the dream…
We have to separate Hogan the man from Hogan the myth.

The myth taught us to believe.
The man reminded us never to believe too hard.

So what now?

We retire the mask.
We mourn the myth.
And we build better heroes. Ones who don’t need steroids, sex tapes, or courtrooms.

And if you’re still asking, “What’cha gonna do, brother?”
Maybe the answer is this:

Be better than him.

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And remember, brother:
It’s okay to outgrow your heroes.
Just make sure you grow into someone worth believing in.