Hawley's Hoppers

Manhood as Costume and Cosplay

They strut. They grunt. They hold beer cans like crucifixes. And still—something’s… off.

I’ve watched them closely, these MAGA men. They perform masculinity like they’re auditioning for a low-budget regional dinner theatre production of Brokeback Mountain: The Musical. Tight jeans, open flannels, boots with no dirt on them. All stage. All costume. No script.

There’s a frustration lingering in the air around them, not unlike the smell of Axe body spray clinging to a middle school locker room. But it’s not just theirs. It’s hers too—the wife. You’ve seen her—vacant eyes, dead smile, the face of someone who once watched Sex in the City and dreamed of Italy before settling for a man who treats foreplay like a pit stop at AutoZone.

Yes, the MAGA man has a sexual issue. Not orientation—that’s his mystery to solve—but performance. Connection. Intimacy. You can’t love another when you’re too busy loving your reflection in a truck grille.

You’ve been to bars in their neighbourhoods and watched these fellas talk louder as the night goes on, each beer another step up the testosterone stairway to nowhere. They puff up like blowfish in denim. If you can wrestle a raccoon off a lawn chair or scream at a waitress about “trans dancing,” congratulations: you’ve earned your MAGA badge of manhood.

And then there’s Josh Hawley.

I swear this guy’s got a poster of himself running from democracy under his mattress. That little jog out of the Capitol on January 6? Nothing screams "alpha male" like a panic pirouette in Dockers. He flexes from the podium now like it’s a cougar kill, but there’s fear in the eyes—like he knows the ghosts of real men past are watching and judging from the rafters of American history.

Does Josh keep a scorecard? Does he call Speaker Johnson after hours and whisper locker room secrets through a voice softened by evangelical guilt? "Mike, I did it again... I watched Brokeback and didn't skip the love scene this time." Maybe he dials Laura Ingraham from a plywood confessional, voice trembling like a closeted altar boy at CPAC. “Laura, I have sinned. Forgive me. I liked it when the drag queen made eye contact.”

And Laura? Don’t let that crisp cable shell fool you. That woman’s dominatrix game is strong. Picture it: Congressmen crawling through her Georgetown basement in ball gags and red hats, begging for discipline with copies of The Art of the Deal tucked in their boxers. Monkey bars, feather boas, Nancy Reagan masks. An actual house of correction for morally incontinent legislators.

Republican manhood has morphed into something grotesque—a muscle flex with no muscle, a swagger built on fear. And somewhere, deep down, they know it. That’s why they scan books for gays and bathrooms for boogeymen. It’s why they peep longer than the average pervert and hang around high school gym showers after the last jockstrap’s been claimed.

These aren't men. These are Five Finger Death Punch without the charm: cosplay cowboys, Bannon-built bikers, and militia men in camo Spanx. Trump went full YMCA a decade ago when he flopped out of a CPAC steam room wrapped in a MAGA towel and made it rain pamphlets.

This isn't masculinity—it’s parody. A satire without a laugh track. A bedroom fantasy for men who can’t finish what they start and women who gave up asking.

Maybe there’s a cream—something between Bengay and holy water. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s time to admit manhood isn’t loud. It isn’t cruel. It doesn’t need a flag or a truck or a gun. It’s the quiet strength to love, to listen, and occasionally admit when you’re wrong.

But you can’t fund that on GoFundMe. That takes growing up.
And lord knows they’re allergic to that.