Red Hat Rebranders: How MAGA Became the Final Sanctuary for Shameless Celebrities

These guys aren’t patriots. They’re opportunists with felony records and a shortcut.

A while back, I wrote about how MAGA has become a cheat code for politicians who don’t want to do the hard work of explaining things, governing, or interacting with reality. They just slap on the hat, scream “deep state,” and watch their supporters do backflips to rationalize anything that follows. That article was about Trump-era logic. But now, we’re seeing something worse: celebrities adopting MAGA not out of ideology, but as an image rehab package.

The same way some people call their agents, their stylists, or their PR team after a scandal — these folks call Don Jr. It’s cowardice wrapped in a red hat. We’ll call them what they are: Red Hat Rebranders, or RHRs.

RHRs aren’t true believers. They’re not storming the Capitol. They’re not even watching Newsmax unironically. They’re simply public figures who’ve been hit with scandal, backlash, or a sex crime indictment, and rather than facing consequences, they hop on the Trump train and dare anyone to question them. MAGA, in this context, is not just a political movement—it’s a laundering service. A way to say, “If Trump took me in, who are you to hold me accountable?” It’s the toxic evolution of the argumentum ad verecundiam — the appeal to authority fallacy. Only here, the “authority” is a guy who tried to buy Greenland and suggested nuking a hurricane.

You can usually tell when someone is mid-transformation into an RHR. The signs are painfully obvious. They start showing up at UFC fights even if they’ve never thrown a punch in their life. Their social feeds go from sponsored protein powders to vaguely racist memes in record time. They suddenly rediscover the First Amendment — but only when it involves defending their own unhinged behavior. The phrase “the real racists are the ones talking about race” enters their vocabulary. They appear in a Russell Brand video or sit across from Dana White looking like they just signed a contract with shame itself. One minute, they’re a disgraced pop culture relic. The next, they’re high-fiving Mike Lindell at CPAC and doing pushups next to Vivek Ramaswamy.

And no one did it more shamelessly — or more predictably—than the late Hulk Hogan.

The last ten years of Hogan’s life were marred by scandal, beginning with the moment in 2015 when he was caught on tape going full George Wallace about his daughter’s then-boyfriend, dropping the n-word with the casual ease of a man who wasn’t just racist in the moment — but practiced. This wasn’t Morgan Wallen slurring in the driveway after too many Jack and Cokes. It was deep-seated, hateful, premeditated. Hogan didn’t just say the n-word—he laid out an entire racial caste system. WWE immediately fired him and scrubbed his name from its history. When Hogan finally issued an apology, it wasn’t for the racism — it was for getting caught. The New Day, three of WWE’s most prominent Black stars, released a statement that radiated more grace and thoughtfulness than Hogan showed in his entire post-scandal press run. Booker T even gave him an off-ramp: a joint speaking tour to educate kids about racism and do the hard work of reconciliation. Hogan declined.

He didn’t change. He found a new audience that didn’t care. And MAGA didn’t ask questions. He was loudly cheered at the Republican National Convention, as if the racism was part of the appeal. But when WWE tested the waters by having him appear at a Raw event in Los Angeles, a far less MAGA-friendly crowd, Hogan was booed vigorously. The contrast said it all: Hogan’s red-hat shtick didn’t play outside the MAGA safe zone. The branding was radioactive. But if there’s one person still eager to bring that crowd back into the wrestling world, it’s Triple H — who seems hell-bent on making WWE look more like its UFC counterpart, complete with the red hats, the grievance politics, and the permanent refusal to read the room.

The same stage that launched Hogan’s career — WWE — is no stranger to MAGA’s orbit. The company famously inducted Donald Trump into its Hall of Fame, which is only slightly more embarrassing than the time Vince McMahon fake-died in a limousine explosion. But while WWE distanced itself from Trump during his presidency—rarely mentioning him on TV after January 6 — executive Paul Levesque, better known as Triple H, seems ready to bring the brand full circle. When asked about the company’s lack of prominent Black champions, Triple H responded with the most tired line in conservative white guy politics: “I don’t see color.” There are T-shirt cannons with more awareness than that.

Triple H’s unwillingness to engage with real criticism is classic RHR energy. He doesn’t want to have the conversation. He doesn’t want to explain the numbers or the patterns or the optics. He wants to throw up his hands and retreat into the warm, uncritical arms of MAGA—where not seeing color is somehow considered a virtue and not a cop-out. And if you’re still not convinced WWE has a type, their corporate sibling, UFC, is basically the marketing arm of Trump’s ego. Dana White has been repping MAGA since before it was cool, and he’s now a regular at Trump rallies and White House events. Where other sports promote social responsibility, UFC promotes testosterone and denial

Triple H delivers remarks at a Sports Council announcement event, Thursday, July 31, 2025, in the Roosevelt Room of the White House. | Official White House Photo by Daniel Torok via Flickr

.Speaking of denial, let’s talk about Lawrence Taylor. A Hall of Fame linebacker. One of the greatest athletes of all time. And now, inexplicably, the newest MAGA ornament at Trump’s “Make America Fit Again” youth fitness initiative at the White House. For those of you keeping score: that’s Trump, back in office, inviting a registered sex offender to an event about children’s health. If there’s a punchline there, it died of shame in 2016.

Taylor’s past drug use is well-documented and, frankly, forgivable. Cocaine. Rehab. Repeat. That’s an old NFL story. And a human one. But Taylor’s sex crimes are not forgivable, and the way he speaks about them makes it even worse. In 2010, Taylor pleaded guilty to patronizing a prostitute and sexual misconduct. The prostitute was 16 years old. She was trafficked. Taylor claimed he didn’t know her age. But even if you give him that implausible benefit of the doubt—he’s never shown an ounce of genuine remorse. He talks about the incident like a bad travel delay, cracking jokes and brushing off the legal and moral weight like he fumbled a parking ticket.

Instead of speaking out against trafficking or making amends, he leaned hard into RHR status. Taylor joined the MAGAverse in 2024, made no public effort to repair his image, and now stands shoulder to shoulder with a man credibly accused of rape in a court of law. His presence at a youth-focused event wasn’t just tone-deaf — it was a giant middle finger to accountability. It tells other predators, “If you hug the right flag, your past disappears.” We are not talking about redemption. We’re talking about refuge. From shame. From scrutiny. From justice.

Taylor isn’t the only one. Trump’s circle is increasingly full of men who have used the RHR route to erase their baggage. He pardoned multiple rappers with violent records during his first term. He platformed Russell Brand, who now positions himself as a truth-teller while under investigation for multiple sexual assault allegations. MAGA, in these cases, isn’t about America — it’s about amnesty for men who’ve run out of excuses.

It’s important to note that this tactic doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Compare all of this to Will Smith, who famously slapped Chris Rock at the Oscars in 2023. Smith could’ve gone full RHR. He could’ve doubled down, played the “real man” card, and done a podcast tour blaming cancel culture and “wokeness.” I thought he might—not necessarily by going MAGA, but by leaning into a shallow justification of the slap and turning it into a brand. Given his A-list status, he could’ve ridden that wave and built an entire post-scandal persona around it. But to his credit, Smith didn’t. He apologized. He didn’t throw Jada under the bus. He didn’t post memes about free speech or masculine energy. He owned it. Slowly. Publicly. Uneasily. The way grown men are supposed to.

That’s the difference. One path is hard. The other wears a red hat.

What makes RHRs so dangerous isn’t just their lack of remorse — it’s that they make shamelessness aspirational. They tell a whole generation of fame-chasers and clout addicts that you don’t need to change. You don’t need to listen. You don’t need to grow. Just switch jerseys. Rebrand yourself as a victim of “wokeness,” align with Trump, and watch your past disappear under a pile of American flags and protein shake endorsements. But don’t let the flags fool you. These guys aren’t patriots. They’re opportunists with felony records and a shortcut.

And they won’t be the last. Red Hat Rebranding is the new PR. It’s cowardice, merchandised. It’s a way to take real pain — racism, assault, exploitation — and drown it out with slogans and selfie videos. And the longer we let them do it, the more normalized it becomes.

So the next time you see a disgraced celebrity pop up on Fox News talking about how “cancel culture” destroyed their life, don’t be fooled. That’s not a comeback story. That’s just another RHR doing what they do best: dodging accountability, clinging to power, and hoping you don’t remember what they did before the hat came on.

Kristoffer Ealy is a political science professor who teaches at California State University Fullerton. He is the author of the upcoming book, Political Illiteracy: Learning the Wrong Lessons. Read the original column here.

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