The most brutal comedy show in America



Americans love a good laugh. Or, at least that used to be the case.

In recent years, however, the rise of wokeness and political correctness has cast a long shadow over American discourse. The cultural landscape has shifted so dramatically that many people now find themselves tiptoeing around topics, afraid to voice their true opinions for fear of backlash.

Hinchcliffe’s job is to strip away any pretense and lay bare the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be for the contestant — or the audience.

It’s an environment where even the slightest misstep can lead to social or professional exile.

Enter "Kill Tony" — a live podcast that not only laughs in the face of these constructs but bulldozes right through them.

Comedy as combat

"Kill Tony" isn't your ordinary podcast. A cross between a Comedy Central roast battle, a live execution, and WWE’s Royal Rumble, it’s full of loud music, flashing lights, confused faces, and caustic zingers.

Hosted by comedian Tony Hinchcliffe, the show combines the unpredictability of live performance with the adrenaline of a high-stakes competition. Each episode features aspiring comedians — some seasoned, others fresh off the open-mic circuit — taking the stage for 60 seconds. Some swim, most sink.

Once the jokes are over, the real fun begins.

This is when the comedians (or deluded chancers) are subjected to a no-holds-barred critique from Hinchcliffe and his panel of guest judges (often big names in comedy).

To be clear, this isn’t your grandma’s feedback session. The criticisms are devastating, the jokes are savage, and the atmosphere is electric. It’s a spectacle that's both entertaining and nerve-racking, with audience members never knowing if they’re about to witness the rise of the next big comedy star or the complete annihilation of someone’s dreams.

It’s usually the latter.

The appeal of "Kill Tony" lies in its rawness and its intense embrace of the taboo. In a time when people are scared to say the wrong thing, this show revels in saying exactly what it wants, when it wants, and how it wants.

Smash hit

And it’s resonating. What started as a niche project in a small comedy club in Austin has grown into the most popular live podcast in the world. This meteoric success was on full display recently when "Kill Tony" sold out not one but two live shows at Madison Square Garden.

Yes, you read that right. Madison Square Garden, the same venue that hosts rock legends and sports icons, was packed to the rafters with fans eager to witness a podcast taping.

But then again, "Kill Tony" isn’t just a podcast; it’s an experience.

Hinchcliffe, the diminutive ringmaster, is not a nice guy — and that’s precisely what makes him perfect for the job. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a demeanor that’s as catty as it is camp, Hinchcliffe embodies the spirit of a bona fide mean girl. He doesn’t just host the show; he dominates it.

The 40-year-old’s style is combative. His default mode is to destroy. Whether contestants deliver solid performances or flounder under the bright lights, they’re never safe from his acerbic wit. He’s the kind of host who, even if you’ve just nailed your set, will find something to tear apart — and do it with a grin that suggests he’s enjoying every second.

Hinchcliffe’s job is to strip away any pretense and lay bare the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be for the contestant — or the audience. When he looks a contestant up and down, sizing them up like prey, you can almost see the gears turning as he prepares to rip them a new one.

Heel turn

One of the most memorable — and painfully cringeworthy — episodes of "Kill Tony" featured none other than Ric Flair, one of the greatest wrestlers of all time.

But poor Ric had no idea what he was getting himself into. Here was a man whose entire career was built on the larger-than-life theatrics of professional wrestling, stepping into the lion’s den of the cruelest comedy show on the planet.

Flair, with his signature flamboyance, took the stage and began to lecture the audience on the importance of kindness — a message that landed about as well as a vegan sermon at a hot dog-eating contest.

The disconnect was palpable. Flair, clearly lost and out of his element, seemed almost dazed — away with the birds, as they say. It was a surreal moment, a kind of comedic train wreck you couldn’t look away from. Mark Normand, a regular on "Kill Tony," later summed it up perfectly: Flair, he said, now resembled “Joe Biden in tights.”

As for Hinchcliffe, he was visibly uneasy as he watched Flair, his childhood hero and close friend, struggle while the audience laughed in the ex-wrestler’s face. You see, Hinchcliffe’s deep love for wrestling, particularly the WWF — now WWE — has been influential in "Kill Tony's" success.

Consummate showman

If you’ve ever watched a wrestling match, you know it’s about more than just the moves; it’s the entrance music, the rivalries, and the ever-evolving storylines that keep fans hooked. Hinchcliffe took these elements and infused them into his comedy podcast, creating something entirely unique.

Just like The Rock, Stone Cold, and other legends of yesteryear, comedians on "Kill Tony" develop their own personas and storylines.

Take William Montgomery, a.k.a. "Big Red," for example, a character who’s as erratic as he is entertaining. With a penchant for roaring — at the host, the band, the audience, or simply the cosmos — Montgomery doesn't just tell jokes; he unleashes them.

Hinchcliffe’s deep understanding of wrestling’s theatrical elements has paid off in more ways than one. At one point, he was even offered a writing gig by Vince McMahon, the controversial mastermind behind WWE. Hinchcliffe, then in his 20s, turned it down.

That decision turned out to be a wise one. The comedian recently secured a massive Netflix deal, putting him in the same league as Joe Rogan’s $100 million Spotify contract.

Hats off to Hinchcliffe.

He has managed to create a show where kindness is a foreign concept and where the only rule is that there are no rules — except maybe to survive the verbal onslaught and come out the other side with your dignity intact.

Joe Rogan is not funny



This article is bound to provoke strong reactions, so let’s not waste any time angering the masses. Joe Rogan’s stand-up comedy is not very good. Some could argue that it’s objectively awful.

For those in doubt, feel free to check out his latest Netflix special, "Burn the Boats." After a six-year hiatus, following 2018’s "Strange Times," itself an underwhelming affair, "Burn the Boats" was highly anticipated. Rogan spent four years preparing for this moment, even opening his own comedy club in Austin to refine his material.

Consider the output of Rogan’s close friends — Mark Normand, Shane Gillis, and Tony Hinchcliffe. Watching them perform feels like seeing a fleet of F1 cars zoom by while an old Lada stutters along in the background.

Unfortunately, the special fails to live up to expectations, leaving fans and critics alike questioning whether Rogan has lost his comedic edge entirely — or if he ever had one to begin with.

Old jokes

One of the most glaring issues with "Burn the Boats" is Rogan’s reliance on old material and tired jokes. For a comedian of his stature, all these years of preparation should have resulted in fresh, original content. Instead, the special feels like a retread of his past work, with recycled jokes and premises that longtime fans have already heard.

This includes a masturbation joke that Rogan first told in his 2010 special, "Talking Monkeys in Space." Repeating old content is considered a cardinal sin in comedy, yet Rogan shamelessly resorts to it, betraying the trust of his audience. For a comedian with his reputation, this laziness is inexcusable.

To be clear, the 57-year-old is a phenomenal podcaster, a skilled interviewer, and an affable personality who can engage with a wide range of guests, from UFC fighters to philosophers. However, the qualities that make him a great podcaster do not translate to stand-up comedy.

The sad reality is that Rogan is not a great comic; he’s not even a good one. In "Burn the Boats" he attempts to make up for his lack of content by shouting and making weird faces, but these antics only serve to highlight the weakness of his material.

'Meathead nonsense'

Rogan recently angered many of his fans by essentially endorsing RFK Jr. and praising a speech by Kamala Harris. While Rogan is certainly entitled to his own political opinions, his latest special risks alienating not just his fan base but also comedy purists in general. "Burn the Boats" has effectively burned Rogan’s credibility as a comedian. With an IMDb rating of just 4.8, the special has been met with brutal — and accurate — criticism from viewers.

One disgruntled viewer expressed frustration: “You expect a certain amount of meathead nonsense and conspiracy talk which may or may not be genuine. But the thing I've always found grating has now become a constant in this show: yelling everything as though he doesn't have a microphone.”

Another viewer echoed this sentiment: “'Burn the Boats' ... is a colossal disappointment. The performance is plagued by excessive yelling and exaggerated expressions, which quickly become tiresome.”

But all is not lost. Rogan still has at least one high-profile fan. Adam Sandler recently appeared on "The Joe Rogan Experience" and lauded the special.

However, it’s important to note that the Brooklyn-born banterer is an actor — and a very good one at that. The manner in which he praised Rogan as a comic — without actually laughing — was so convincing that it was almost Oscar-worthy. Sandler’s commendation felt more like a courtesy nod to a fellow entertainer than a genuine endorsement of Rogan’s comedic abilities.

Movieweb aptly labeled the special a “boring showcase for the Dunning-Kruger effect," and frankly, it’s hard to argue with that assessment. The whole affair felt like a master class in how not to be self-aware. Rogan stumbled through jokes that landed with the thud of a bad Yelp (or IMDb) review.

Sycophant psych-out

In stark contrast, consider the output of Rogan’s close friends — Mark Normand, Shane Gillis, and Tony Hinchcliffe — all comedic powerhouses in their own right. Watching them perform feels like seeing a fleet of F1 cars zoom by while an old Lada stutters along in the background. The contrast in speed, skill, and sheer entertainment is undeniable. Normand’s rapid-fire wit, Gillis’s razor-sharp observations, and Hinchcliffe’s caustic jabs only serve to accentuate Rogan’s deficiencies.

Jay Mohr, another stand-up comic renowned for his comedic dexterity, astutely observed that Rogan is surrounded by sycophants — individuals who either lack the courage or are too eager to perform at his comedy club to tell him when he's missing the mark. One can't help but think this insular, emperor's-new-clothes bubble of adulation has allowed Rogan's ego to inflate unchecked, leading to audience frustration and scathing reviews.

As far as comedy goes, I am no longer interested in buying what he’s selling. The ship has sailed, and that boat has been thoroughly burned. Joe Rogan is talented, but he's certainly not funny.

Shane Gillis rocks Austin, Texas, as Donald Trump



Former president Donald Trump made a triumphant return to the spotlight at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee on Tuesday, his bandaged ear a reminder of the assassination attempt he'd survived just two days earlier at a rally in Butler, Pennsylvania.

Meanwhile, the latest episode of the popular comedy podcast "Kill Tony" featured the triumphant return of comic Shane Gillis' famous impression of the 45th president — this time performed in full Trump regalia.

The episode, as usual recorded live at Austin, Texas, venue Comedy Mothership, started with a special, top-secret guest: "Joe Biden" (portrayed by comic Adam Ray). After slowly walking out on stage with a vacant grin, Ray joined host Tony Hinchcliffe and his producer Brian Redban on the dais to watch show regular Casey Rocket warm up the crowd.

Ray's Biden-esque rambling was then cut off by patriotic, MAGA-themed video montage, leading into Gillis' entrance as Trump.

As in Milwaukee, the crowd erupted.

While the episode was prerecorded on July 8, the timing for its release could not have been better.

'This man, showered with his daughter. Do you believe this?'

Gillis and Ray stayed in character for nearly two-and-a-half hours, exchanging presidential jabs, with Gillis honing in on certain creepy allegations about the incumbent.

When a guest comedian revealed getting married at 17 years old, Gillis joked that it was a great age for "showering with your dad, the way [Biden's] daughter did."

"Look it up! You're going to be very, very surprised that this guy, this man, showered with his daughter. Do you believe this? Till she was 13," he added.

"I love my family!" Ray replied, displaying the trademark Biden smirk.

Gillis was referring to the diary of Biden's daughter Ashley, in which she recorded a disturbing childhood memory of showering with her father.

"Was I molested? I think so," she wrote.

The faux presidents also touched on foreign policy. After a performance by a former Army Ranger, who revealed he had been deployed to Afghanistan three times, host Tony Hinchcliffe remarked that Trump did not get the credit that he deserved for ending the war in the Middle East.

Gillis as Trump then jabbed at Biden's botched pullout from Afghanistan: "I wanted out of there and then what Joe did ... what an absolute disgrace, this was horrible."

The Ranger agreed and said that he would be voting for Trump in 2024, as he did in 2020.

The crowd's genial reaction to Gillis' antics revealed something "Kill Tony" fans have known for a long time: The liberal, anti-Trump stranglehold on comedy is weakening.

Just contrast Gillis' generally affectionate ribbing of Trump with the tone-deaf attempt at humor by Jack Black's Tenacious D bandmate Kyle Gass. While playing a concert in Australia the day after the shooting, Black sang "Happy Birthday" to Gass, then asked him to make a wish.

Gass jokingly asked that any future would-be assassin not "miss Trump next time." The chilly response to Gass' remark, both at the venue and online, would seem to indicate that the appetite for such ideologically driven Trump "humor" has dwindled.

Instead of tired Orange-Man-Hitler material, Gillis and Ray both offered exaggerated yet fundamentally accurate portrayals of Trump and Biden, respectively. If Gillis' Trump came off better, it wasn't because of some kind of partisan bias on the part of the show.

In other words, it's funny because it's true. The raucous response that night from an audience in one of America's most notoriously liberal towns offers a hopeful sign that real comedy — the type that puts laughter before politics — will never go out of style.

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