Joe Rogan’s motivational sermons have moulded a generation of young men in his bulky image. A clone army of faux Rogans reverse-sled-pulling around the guilt of their own human potential.
On the third day, Rog formed man from his worn meniscus tendon and a newborn’s umbilical. He took a huff of DMT, a shot of exogenous test, and a blast of sauna steam and breathed life into man’s nostrils, and the Bro Jogan became a living being.
As all dads suffer from a severe telephonic allergy, the average male listener has spent more hours in the drifting company of the No 1 potcaster, than their own fathers. The result: diehard-tryhards the world over with an unrelenting Texan go-getter at the helm of their subconscious.
However, if a Bro Jogan had practised Jiu-Jitsu and stand-up for a fraction of the time they’ve spent listening about it, he could kill in both art forms.
As it stands, the potential and limbs of these fanciful ground-fighters remain untapped. A brown-leather-belt has drunk-browsed a jiu-jitsu school in their area, but never taken that terrifying leap of actually visiting a class timetable page.
Similarly, most Roganites suspect they are the white-middle-class-unincarcerated-unorphaned, Joey Diaz. But won’t ever risk cross-referencing their destiny with a live crowd.
The original Rogan is a proud carnivore, with a diet consisting entirely of bow-hunted bison, elk and Vegans.
After a gruelling trek across the frozen aisles of Iceland*, a Rogan Josh packs up a bulk lot of processed sausages. Consuming meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a few breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Before realising they don’t have the patience or endurance for the huntsman’s ritual of scouring a blackened pan. The primal cave-in, however, is blamed on their partner’s nutrigenomic weakness for fruit and veg.
Buried in his DNA, a To-and-Frogan carries a skin-deep fascination with arrowing down that next meal. There is one non-fatal drawback of his bow-toting fantasy. The only prey maybe-worth ambushing is found at the local duck pond and he wouldn’t say boo to a goose. So I was cooking up a mallard on my Traeger grill…
For the ardent Brogue, these thrice-weekly bro-downs are their sole source of global news. Every creeping act of World War 3 is taken in, blow by blow, via the animated martial arts commentator. Most Bro Rogans will only get word the nukes are raining if a wizened-old Young Jamie pulls the flight path up.
Just like the Huberman wives, partners everywhere use their bogus-Rogan-boo’s poddy learnings as an effective sleep aid. As these well-listened scholars make little-understood concepts, like simulation theory and quantum theory, even less understood.
Over time, the thoughts of a 50-something lonestar millionaire enter their heads and leave their mouths. In a dinner-table debate, a Basque city-dweller finds themselves a staunch defender of gun freedoms. Lost for words, a new father analogises the miracle of birth to the rumbling carburettor of a Chevy Corvette. If they don’t fast forward, a well-housed suburbanite will end up moaning about the unsightliness of homeless people’s homes.
The Bro Jogan has done their 10,000 hours of hearing Joe Rogan’s advice and actually started listening.
However, our slow-Rogan is fast realising that weightlifting, aerodyming, kettlebelling, coldplunging, saunaing, meditating, yogaing, reverse-hypering, iron-necking, knees-over-toesing, writing, podcasting, hunting, healthy-eating, running a business, and chasing your dreams, and raising your kids, and spending quality time with your wife, and hanging out with your friends, and, somehow, still smoking fucking weed, is pretty much impossible around one actual job - not three part-time passions. Yeah, get a real job, Joe! Y’lazy sod.
There’s no amount of inner-bitch rebukes or price-gouged nootropics that will find the energy. Don’t surrender to the constraints of time, you little bitch.
All said and done, the march of the Roganites - get in shape, follow your dreams - is a worthy one. The JRE’s gentle brainwashing is part of the reason I’m still writing today and not still depressed and morbidly obese, just content and obese. So I owe Papa Rogan for that.
I am Bro Jogan, hear my whimper. I’m absolutely exhausted.
*For you Wrong’ns stateside, Iceland is cheap British supermarket that exclusively sells frozen foods.
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Let's see; I have been kettlebelling for the last seven or eight years, cold plunging for at least a year. Jiu-jitsu training, Pot smoking too. Oh no, I am Bro Jogan :)))
Among a certain circle Daddy Joe is best known for his plaintive cry whenever he's been duped by yet another obvious hoax which he swallowed uncritically, his lament at the Internet's feckless betrayal of his gibbering faith - "WHY DOES IT LIE?"
I'm fortunate in that I've never encountered the gent except embedded in somebody else's savage mockery of his witterings. Thus I have saved myself approx 17,382 hours, time which hasn't been wasted, and so now I am the very physically strong and wealthy individual you see before you today.