Unmasking MAGA, Part 8: The Conspiracy Theorists
They don’t just reject truth. They replace it.
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We’ve already met some of them.
In Part 7, we explored the Red Pillers: the ecosystem of content creators, provocateurs, influencers, and prophets who offer a curated alternate reality—one tailored to funnel rage, loneliness, and distrust into loyalty to the right-wing machine. And within that universe, conspiracy theorists play a vital role. Many of them are Red Pillers. But they are also something else.
Because where most Red Pillers build an alternate reality, the conspiracy theorists do something far more radical along with building an alternate worldview: they erode our shared reality. They don’t just question authority—they question existence. They don’t just corrode trust in institutions—they erase the very possibility of shared truth.
That’s why they need their own chapter.
Conspiracy theorists don’t form a political movement. They don’t run candidates, publish platforms, or march under a single flag. They exist on the fringe—until the fringe becomes the center. They operate on the margins—until the margins swallow everything else.
They don’t believe in ideology. They believe in plots. And once that belief takes hold, no fact, no proof, no institution can touch them.
This isn’t a party. It’s an immune response—a cultural breakdown where every failure of government, every betrayal by power, gets metabolized into suspicion. The roads are crumbling? It must be on purpose. The rich keep getting richer? That’s not incompetence—it’s a secret plan. The country feels like it’s falling apart? That’s not decay—it’s design.
Some conspiracy theorists come to this place through trauma, failure, or abandonment. Their lives have collapsed, their trust has been broken, and they’re looking for someone—anyone—to explain the pain. Others arrive through wonder. A curiosity about ancient civilizations or alternative medicine slowly curdles into doubt about science, then expertise, then truth itself. And still others come simply because they feel like outsiders. Misfits. People whose instincts and insights were never welcomed by consensus—and who finally find a home in a community that treats skepticism like salvation.
It doesn’t matter how they get there. Once inside, the rules change. Truth becomes tribal. Loyalty becomes knowledge. And reality itself becomes optional.
That’s what makes conspiracy theorists so dangerous. They aren’t just believers. They’re evangelists for a new kind of worldview—one where facts are fungible, enemies are everywhere, and salvation can only be found in the rejection of everything that came before. You can’t fact-check them. You can’t debate them. Because for them, your facts are the lie. Your questions are the trap. Your reality is the enemy.
They didn’t build the MAGA machine. But they protect it. Feed it. Justify it. And infect every part of it.
They are the immune system failure of democracy—and the perfect delivery system for fascism.
Why They Matter
Conspiracy theorists don’t hold the reins of power. They don’t write policy, draft legislation, or control party machinery. But without them, the MAGA movement wouldn’t function. Because in a coalition built on lies, corruption, and betrayal, someone has to explain the mess. Someone has to tell the faithful why everything is still going according to plan—even when it clearly isn’t.
That’s where conspiracy theorists come in. They aren’t just foot soldiers. They are the narrative shock absorbers of the entire machine.
When fascists violate the Constitution they claim to defend, conspiracy theorists say it was necessary to defeat the “deep state.” When corporate elites rig the economy and ship jobs overseas, they say it’s part of a globalist plot to enslave America—not the natural result of deregulation and tax cuts. When theocrats violate liberty in the name of God, conspiracy theorists assure you they’re saving the children.
In every case, the goal is the same: take what is observable, unjust, and real—and reframe it as intentional, righteous, or secretly benevolent. The conspiracy theorist doesn’t fix contradictions. They explain them away.
That’s their genius. They don’t need to convince you of any single belief. They just need to make you doubt everything else.
Because once you stop trusting the media, the scientists, the courts, the teachers, the doctors, the voting machines—then the only people left to trust are the ones inside the tribe. That’s not a bug in the system. It’s the point. Conspiracism isn’t a fringe element of the MAGA movement—it’s the glue that keeps it from falling apart.
They make accountability impossible. They neutralize dissent. They transform confusion into clarity—but only within the closed circuit of the cult.
And unlike other factions, conspiracy theorists don’t care about consistency. They’ll believe the pandemic was a hoax and a bioweapon. That Trump is a buffoon and a 5D chess master. That democracy is a sham and that their guy actually won. Logic doesn’t matter—only loyalty.
That’s what makes them so dangerous. And so useful.
They don’t build power. They make sure no one else can question it.
Origin Story
Conspiracy theorists didn’t arrive with MAGA. They’ve always been with us.
From the very beginning, America has had a deep suspicion of hidden power. The anti-Masonic panic of the 1800s, the Know-Nothing movement, the Red Scares, the John Birch Society—all of them warned that some secret force was working behind the scenes to manipulate the world. Sometimes it was the Illuminati. Sometimes the Jews. Sometimes the Catholics. But it was always the same story: the system can’t be trusted, and someone—somewhere—is pulling the strings.
What changed over time wasn’t the instinct to distrust. It was the scope of the failure that fueled it.
That’s the key to understanding modern conspiracism. It doesn’t emerge from nowhere. It grows in the soil of government failure, corruption, and institutional decay. The more our systems fail to serve the public, the more people become convinced they were never meant to. And when a society stops believing in incompetence or negligence as explanations, conspiracy takes over.
We introduced this idea in Part 5: conspiracy theories act like a thermometer. They don’t cause the fever. They measure it. The greater the failure—of governance, of justice, of truth—the higher the reading.
After JFK was assassinated, the official story never satisfied. After Watergate, no one believed the government could be trusted. After 9/11, conspiracy theories exploded—not because people were delusional, but because the official explanations seemed incomplete, cynical, or sanitized. And when the 2008 crash revealed the economy was a casino rigged for elites, people started to look for puppet masters.
Not all of them looked in the right direction. But the instinct to search? That came from somewhere real.
These weren’t just fringe beliefs anymore. They became coping mechanisms.
And with the rise of social media, conspiracy didn’t just spread—it transformed. It no longer needed a central myth or a controlling ideology. You didn’t need to join a group or attend a meeting. All you had to do was doubt. Doubt the vaccines. Doubt the election. Doubt the experts. Doubt the Earth itself. Once you did, the algorithm would do the rest—feeding you fear, reinforcing your distrust, and making sure the next piece of content took you deeper down the rabbit hole.
But not all conspiracies begin as political. Some begin as curiosity.
Flat Earth. Atlantis. Graham Hancock’s “alternative history.” These aren’t partisan doctrines. They’re cultural wedges. They don’t teach people to vote a certain way—they teach them to treat consensus itself as suspicious. That’s what makes them so dangerous. Because they aren’t about policy. They’re about perception. Once someone is trained to doubt any idea that’s widely accepted, they’re one nudge away from rejecting science, democracy, or law.
And when that happens, it doesn’t matter where they started. They’ll all end up in the same place: a world where nothing is true, but everything is explainable—so long as it’s someone else’s fault.
If you want to understand how a lie becomes a movement, how science becomes a scapegoat, and how public trust gets weaponized against itself—start with Andrew Wakefield
I’m doing something here I haven’t done before: giving precise citations. If there’s ever been a time in this series where I need you to get the facts exactly right, this is it. Many Americans died of COVID-19 who didn’t have to—thanks in great part to the anti-vaxx death cult. American children are now dying from measles, needlessly, for the same reason. And sadly, they won’t be the last.
You’ve taken the time to read this series. I owe it to you to show just how thoroughly discredited the roots of the anti-vaxx movement are—so that you’ll understand just how preventable these deaths have always been.
Grandparents. Fathers. Mothers. Children.
This is what they died for.
In 1998, Wakefield—then a British gastroenterologist—published a paper in The Lancet1 claiming that the MMR vaccine (measles, mumps, rubella) might be linked to autism. The paper was cautious in tone. The sample size was tiny: just 12 children. But the implications were explosive. Wakefield’s media appearances were anything but cautious. He stoked fear, suggested causation, and called for the suspension of the combined MMR vaccine in favor of single-dose alternatives.
It wasn’t long before the cracks began to show. Independent scientists attempted to replicate the study and failed. Repeatedly. In 2002, a massive Danish study of over half a million children found no link between MMR and autism2. A 2005 Japanese study found that autism rates increased even after MMR was withdrawn3. A 2014 meta-analysis involving more than 1.2 million children found the claim entirely baseless4. There was no evidence. No mechanism. No pattern—except one: the theory didn’t hold up.
But the fraud went deeper than bad science.
Wakefield had never disclosed that he was secretly paid over £400,000 by a team of lawyers preparing lawsuits against vaccine manufacturers5. His “research” wasn’t neutral—it was commissioned. Worse, he had filed a patent for a rival monovalent measles vaccine one year before the paper’s publication6. If public trust in MMR collapsed, he stood to make millions.
That’s not all. Wakefield invented a condition—“autistic enterocolitis”7—that no legitimate body of scientists could verify. And right as he was sounding the alarm about this fabricated disorder, he was planning to market a diagnostic kit to test for it8.
The paper wasn’t just wrong. It was rigged.
An investigation by journalist Brian Deer revealed that Wakefield falsified medical histories, manipulated timelines, and ignored evidence that contradicted his theory9. Some children in the study had shown developmental issues before receiving the MMR shot—yet he presented them as developing symptoms after vaccination. And some samples were collected without consent, in absurdly unethical conditions—like at a child’s birthday party, in exchange for a £5 payment10.
In 2010, the UK’s General Medical Council found Wakefield guilty of serious professional misconduct11, including unethical treatment of children and deliberate dishonesty. He was stripped of his medical license. That same year, The Lancet retracted the paper in full, calling it “utterly false.”12
By every possible measure—scientific, ethical, legal, professional—Wakefield had been discredited. The data was fake. The diagnosis was fictional. The funding was corrupt. The conflict of interest was egregious.
And yet the movement he sparked didn’t die. It grew.
What began as a narrow panic about MMR mutated into generalized vaccine distrust. The narrative metastasized—first linking vaccines to autism in general, then to autoimmune disorders, then to infertility, government surveillance, and microchips. When COVID hit, the movement exploded again, merging with QAnon, anti-lockdown libertarians, and Red Pill influencers. A conspiracy that began in left-leaning, alternative health spaces became a defining feature of the modern far-right.
Today, we’re seeing the consequences. Measles is back. Once declared eliminated in the U.S., it’s now surging again—killing children, and proving that viral myths can undo decades of public health progress. Decades after its inception and its subsequent debunking and discrediting, the movement has not just survived—it's been rewarded. Today, its torchbearer sits in power, with RFK Jr.—a lifelong anti-vaxx propagandist—appointed Secretary of Health and Human Services. The movement isn’t just fringe anymore. It’s at the helm.
This is how it happens.
A lie gets planted in shaky ground.
It gets watered with fear, fertilized with distrust, and shielded from scrutiny by identity.
It grows—even after the gardener is fired, the soil is poisoned, and the harvest turns toxic.
Not because the lie is persuasive—but because it’s emotionally useful.
Wakefield didn’t create the template for modern conspiracy theories.
But he tapped into something powerful.
A process.
A pattern.
One that doesn’t care whether the theory holds up.
Only whether it holds people together.
And once it does, no amount of evidence can dig it out.
Whether it’s the stolen election, the “plandemic,” Pizzagate, the Great Replacement, or chemtrails in the sky—it's always the same. The names change. The claims evolve. But the machinery is identical. No matter how thoroughly a conspiracy is debunked, no matter how discredited its messengers become, the myth survives—because the myth is useful. It plugs the holes that government failure leaves behind. It mends the cracks that contradiction opens up. It explains the pain. It flatters the believer. It makes the unbearable feel righteous.
And as long as a conspiracy does that—as long as it feels true—it will be protected, promoted, and weaponized. Because when it comes to conspiracy theories, facts don’t matter. Only feelings do.
Disguising The Nightmare as a Dream
Conspiracy theorists don’t just invent explanations. They invent meaning—in a world that feels increasingly meaningless.
Where others see cruelty, confusion, or collapse, they offer a story. A map. A logic. One that connects every failure, every contradiction, every betrayal into a single, coherent design. It might be terrifying. But it’s not random. And that, in a broken world, feels like peace.
This is what makes conspiracism so potent—not just as a belief system, but as an emotional sanctuary. It doesn’t eliminate fear. It repurposes it. It doesn’t resolve dissonance. It weaponizes it. And it doesn’t offer escape from the nightmare. It convinces you the nightmare is a dream worth defending.
Because once you believe that every bad thing is part of a secret plan, you no longer have to face the unbearable alternative: that no one’s in charge. That the system is failing not because it was hijacked by lizard people or globalists or child-sacrificing elites—but because it was built to fail you. That there’s no master plan. Just greed. Cowardice. Inequality. Decay. Or worse, that the people causing your suffering are the very people you elected, that you got taken for a fool, and that all the damage done to America in the last 50 years happened with your blessing and thanks to your support.
Whichever the case, that kind of truth is untenable. And so conspiracism offers a swap: trade in your pain for purpose. Trade in your alienation for insight. Join the tribe that knows, and you’ll never be confused again.
That’s why the narratives never need to be logical. They only need to be useful.
If Trump loses an election, it was stolen. If he wins, it was a miracle. If the pandemic is deadly, it was planned. If it’s not, it was a hoax. If vaccines save lives, they’re poison. If they don’t, that’s proof they never worked. Every contradiction is proof of conspiracy. Every flaw in the story is evidence that the story must be true—because why else would “they” be trying so hard to suppress it?
This is not a worldview. It’s a spell. A dream that flatters, simplifies, and soothes—while making reality itself the enemy.
And in that dream, cruelty becomes protection. Censorship becomes truth. Fascism becomes freedom. Not because the conspiracy theorist sets out to defend these things—but because, in the logic of the dream, they’re on the side of the good guys. Whatever their side does must be justified. Whatever the other side does must be evil. And if those lines ever blur, the story simply rewrites itself.
You don’t need to resolve the contradictions. You just need to keep dreaming.
That’s why conspiracy theorists don’t unravel the MAGA coalition. They keep it intact. When fascists are too authoritarian for the libertarians, conspiracy theorists say it’s a necessary sacrifice. When theocrats crush individual rights, they say it’s to protect the innocent. When corporate elites plunder the economy, they say it’s part of a bigger battle against globalist control.
They make the pain make sense. They make the betrayal feel noble. They give the faithful something to believe in—not despite the collapse, but because of it.
The nightmare doesn’t feel like a nightmare anymore.
It feels like a dream you were chosen to see.
Take January 6th.
The facts are plain. A violent mob, fueled by lies, stormed the U.S. Capitol to overturn a democratic election. They beat police officers, smeared shit on the walls, erected gallows, and hunted lawmakers through the halls of Congress. Some came with tactical gear and zip ties. Others prayed as they looted. All of them did it in the name of Trump.
For a movement that claims to stand for “law and order,” it should have been a moment of reckoning. But conspiracy theorists made sure it wasn’t.
Some claimed it was Antifa in disguise. Others said it was the FBI—a false flag, a trap, a setup. Still others insisted it was a peaceful protest. A "guided tour." A crowd of patriots who simply got a little rowdy.
These stories don’t align—they collide. If it was a guided tour, are we saying Antifa or the FBI organized it? Did they lure Trump supporters into walking calmly through velvet ropes? If it was peaceful, who erected the gallows? Who chanted “Hang Mike Pence”? If it was a peaceful guided tour, how did Ashli Babbitt end up climbing through the shattered window of the Speaker’s Lobby moments before being shot by a Capitol officer? Who does that on a tour?
Each version contradicts the next. But no one cares. Because contradiction isn’t a problem for conspiracy theorists—it’s a feature. Every explanation, no matter how incoherent, exists to serve the same purpose: to protect the faithful from doubt. To keep the dream alive.
If you feel guilt, believe it was Antifa. If you feel fear, believe it was the FBI. If you feel pride, believe it was peaceful. And if the facts make you squirm, believe all three at once. It doesn’t matter what’s true. What matters is how it feels.
Because in the dream, January 6th wasn’t an attack on democracy—it was a defense of it. Trump wasn’t the instigator—he was the victim. The movement wasn’t exposed—it was purified.
That’s the power of conspiracism. Not to offer a consistent truth, but to offer a comforting one. One that morphs with your needs, bends with your emotions, and shelters you from the horror of what really happened.
The facts don’t matter. The story does. As long as it soothes the cognitive dissonance—no matter how contradictory—it will survive. And as long as people need the dream to be true, the nightmare will keep wearing its face.
Because if it wasn’t Antifa, or the FBI, or some peaceful misunderstanding—then it was them. Your people. Your tribe. Your movement. Not storming the Capitol to save America—but desecrating it to preserve a lie. That kind of truth would shatter everything. So it had to be rewritten. The dream had to be protected.
And no matter how many versions it takes—guided tour, false flag, deep state setup—it all serves the same purpose: to make sure the reckoning never comes. To make sure the betrayal never feels real. To make sure the nightmare still looks like something holy.
Key Figures
Conspiracy theorists don’t just believe the dream. They keep it alive.
Some of them shout. Some whisper. Some wear suits. Some wear lab coats. Some claim to speak for God. Others claim to speak for science. But no matter their mask, their purpose is the same: to protect the movement from reality. To explain away its failures. To connect its contradictions. To turn doubt into loyalty—and collapse into clarity.
They don’t all push the same story. Some talk about vaccines. Others about stolen elections, ancient civilizations, or Jewish space lasers. But every story they tell leads to the same place: a world where nothing is true except what the tribe believes.
And they’re not just online anymore. They’re not just fringe anymore. They’re not just laughingstocks and internet cranks. Some now sit in Congress. Run departments. Shape policy. Decide life and death.
Some of these figures are architects. Some are evangelists. Some are martyrs. And some are simply opportunists who figured out how to sell the apocalypse at a profit. But each of them plays a role in keeping the MAGA machine immune to facts—and addicted to fiction.
Here are just a few of the names you need to know.
The Epistemic Arsonists
They don’t aim to change your politics. They aim to collapse your reality.
Not all conspiracy theories start with fear or anger. Some start with awe. With curiosity. With questions that seem innocent—until they aren’t.
What if the Earth is flat? What if we never landed on the moon? What if the government is hiding alien civilizations? What if ancient history is all a lie?
These aren’t calls to rebellion. They don’t sound like war cries. They sound like wonder. And that’s exactly why they’re so dangerous.
Because unlike the medical apostates or the sovereign saboteurs, these conspiracy theories don’t tell you what to believe. They train you not to believe anything.
That’s their purpose. These are not movements with goals. They are priming tools—designed to sever your connection to consensus reality. They introduce skepticism not as a method of inquiry, but as a way of life. And once you learn to distrust maps, photographs, textbooks, and telescopes, it’s only a small leap to start distrusting scientists, teachers, judges, and elections.
These are the epistemic bombers of the conspiracy world. They don’t offer a full belief system. They plant the charge that blows the foundation out from under one.
And once that foundation cracks, the path to radicalization is wide open.
Flat Earth
Flat Earth isn’t just a bad science fair project. It’s a psychological stress test. The theory claims that the Earth is not a sphere but a flat disc, usually bordered by a massive ice wall—Antarctica—guarded by secret government forces to keep the truth from leaking out. Most versions claim that space travel is fake, satellite images are doctored, and that the moon landing was a lie to reinforce the illusion. Some go further: the sun is a spotlight, gravity doesn’t exist, and the United Nations is part of the cover-up.
It sounds absurd because it is. But that absurdity is part of the hook. Because once someone accepts that the shape of the Earth is a lie—something taught in every school, confirmed by every scientist, observable through every telescope—they’ve detached from consensus reality. They’ve crossed a threshold where nothing is too ridiculous to believe, and no source is too credible to distrust. That’s the point. Flat Earth isn’t a theory about physics. It’s a test of epistemology. If they can convince you the world is flat, they can convince you of anything.
Mark Sargent is often credited with popularizing Flat Earth in its modern form. A former software tester, he turned to YouTube to share his “Flat Earth Clues” series in 2015. The videos are calm, well-produced, and completely unhinged. But what makes them effective isn’t evidence—it’s emotion. Sargent doesn’t scream. He empathizes. He tells viewers they’re not stupid, they’ve just been lied to. That they’ve noticed something others haven’t. That the ridicule they feel is proof they’re onto something real. It’s less a theory than a seduction.
Austin Thompson, better known as Witsit Gets It, is one of the most aggressive modern voices in the movement. His rhetoric blends pseudoscience, religious dogma, and anti-government suspicion into a confrontational package tailor-made for the YouTube algorithm. He’s debated astronauts, ridiculed physicists, and promised that a grand reckoning is coming for the “globe lie.” But his most revealing moment came during the so-called Final Experiment—an organized trip to Antarctica meant to expose a fatal flaw in the globe model. The goal? Prove that 24-hour sunlight doesn’t exist at the South Pole, as predicted by the heliocentric model. Instead, Witsit and others observed exactly what the globe model said they would: 24-hour sunlight near the solstice.
His response? He called it just “a single data point.” No reckoning. No adjustment. No collapse of the worldview. Whether he still truly believes—or just knows the grift is too good to give up—barely matters. Because once belief becomes identity, even firsthand disconfirmation isn’t enough to break the spell. At that point, it’s not about evidence. It’s about allegiance.
Flat Earth is often laughed off as harmless nonsense. But it’s not. It’s a training ground—a ritual of disconnection that rewires how people interpret information. Once someone is convinced that the entire world has lied about the world itself, they’re primed to believe anything. That’s not science. That’s radicalization.
Moon Landing Hoax
To most of the world, the 1969 Moon landing was a triumph of science, technology, and human determination—a crowning moment in the Cold War’s space race that proved America’s might on a cosmic stage. But to conspiracy theorists, it was something else entirely: a lie. A Hollywood production. A masterstroke of Cold War propaganda designed to trick the world into believing the U.S. had achieved the impossible.
The Moon landing hoax theory claims that the Apollo missions were faked by NASA, possibly filmed on a soundstage, with actors, wires, and artificial lighting used to simulate lunar conditions. Their “evidence” includes everything from supposedly inconsistent shadows, to the waving of the American flag, to the absence of stars in photographs. Nearly all of it has been exhaustively debunked by experts in photography, physics, and astronomy. But again, none of that matters.
Because the hoax theory isn’t about science—it’s about trust. Or rather, the lack of it. It's a gateway drug for a worldview where nothing the government says can be believed, and every achievement becomes suspect by default. It’s not just that NASA lied. It’s that if they lied about this, they could be lying about everything.
Bill Kaysing was the man who lit the fuse. A former technical writer for Rocketdyne—one of the companies that helped develop the Saturn V engines—Kaysing had no formal background in engineering or physics. But in 1974, he self-published We Never Went to the Moon, arguing that the U.S. faked the lunar landings to win the space race without the risk. His claims were speculative, unscientific, and riddled with misunderstandings. But they hit a cultural nerve. The Watergate scandal had just shattered trust in government, and Vietnam had exposed how easily Americans could be lied to. Into that climate of doubt, Kaysing injected a simple idea: maybe the Moon landing was just one more lie.
There was no proof. Just suspicion. But suspicion was enough.
Bart Sibrel picked up where Kaysing left off—and turned the fringe theory into a spectacle. A self-styled documentarian, Sibrel made it his mission to expose NASA as frauds. His film A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Moon repackaged old debunked claims with dramatic narration and cherry-picked clips. But Sibrel’s real notoriety came from confrontation. In 2002, he ambushed Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin, demanding he swear on a Bible that he had walked on the Moon. When Aldrin refused and Sibrel called him a liar and a coward, Aldrin punched him in the face. The clip went viral and became a symbol—not of truth being revealed, but of how far conspiracy theorists would go to provoke attention.
And he’s still at it. In April 2024, Sibrel appeared on The Joe Rogan Experience, repackaging the same claims he’s pushed for decades—only now with a much larger audience. It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a reminder: even the oldest conspiracies can find new life when they’re plugged into the modern influencer machine. Especially when that machine has built its empire by platforming an alternate reality.
Like Flat Earth, the Moon landing hoax thrives on a single, toxic impulse: if something feels too big to believe, it must be fake. And that impulse doesn’t stay contained. Once someone believes the government staged the Moon landing, how hard is it to believe that 9/11 was an inside job? That COVID was planned? That the deep state controls everything?
The Moon landing conspiracy didn’t just deny a singular achievement. It helped spark a movement where reality itself is up for negotiation, and where no amount of evidence can outweigh a gut feeling that someone, somewhere, must be lying.
Ancient Apocalypse
Some conspiracy theories whisper. Others romanticize. That’s what makes Ancient Apocalypse so dangerous: it doesn’t rage against modernity—it seduces you away from it.
Popularized by journalist-turned-pseudohistorian Graham Hancock, the theory claims that a highly advanced civilization once existed over 12,000 years ago—one that predated and seeded the world’s known ancient cultures before being wiped out by a cataclysm. According to Hancock, what we know about human history is a lie. Mainstream archaeology is hiding the truth. And the elites—governments, universities, scientific institutions—are conspiring to keep humanity in the dark.
Hancock insists he isn’t a conspiracy theorist. But every frame of his hit Netflix show Ancient Apocalypse screams otherwise. Scientists are portrayed as dogmatic priests. Archaeology is painted as a religion, not a discipline. And the viewer is invited to see themselves as part of a special class of people who dare to question what “they” don’t want you to know.
The theory’s appeal is obvious. It offers mystery, grandeur, and rebellion. It tells viewers they’re smart, curious, and brave—unlike the academic sheep who refuse to look at the evidence. It’s Indiana Jones meets Joe Rogan.
And that’s not a coincidence.
Hancock has appeared repeatedly on The Joe Rogan Experience, often alongside other Red Pill figures. He frames his work as a rebellion against “cancel culture” in academia, suggesting that scientists are too cowardly—or too controlled—to pursue the real truth. It’s not just fringe history. It’s weaponized contrarianism.
And it’s not harmless.
While Hancock’s theories claim not to be political, they carry clear cultural baggage. His earliest books proposed that the lost civilization may have been racially distinct—possibly even “Caucasoid”—and that its influence can be seen in the accomplishments of non-white civilizations across the globe. That idea, while later softened in public interviews, has provided convenient fodder for white supremacists and ethno-nationalists looking to erase the accomplishments of ancient African, Asian, and Indigenous peoples.
Even when not overtly racist, the theory primes its audience to view mainstream knowledge as corrupt, and expertise as suppression. It’s the same trick used by Flat Earthers, anti-vaxxers, and QAnon influencers—just dressed in prettier clothes. And the result is the same: a public trained to question everything except the person telling them to question everything.
Graham Hancock doesn’t shout. He doesn’t sell supplements. He sells doubt—branded as curiosity. But in the conspiracy economy, that’s all it takes to plant a seed. And once planted, there’s no telling how deep the roots will go.
UFOs and “Disclosure”
Of all the conspiracy theories, none have danced so elegantly between science fiction and national paranoia as the belief in UFOs. What began as Cold War anxiety—a time when military secrecy and technological leaps made the skies feel both mysterious and dangerous—has transformed into something far more enduring: a story about cover-ups, aliens, and a government that knows more than it’s telling.
For decades, belief in extraterrestrial visitation simmered on the edges of pop culture. Roswell. Area 51. The Men in Black. But unlike many fringe beliefs, UFO conspiracies have always flirted with legitimacy. Declassified documents, congressional hearings, and credible testimonies from pilots and officials have lent just enough smoke to suggest fire—while never delivering the kind of proof that could satisfy scientific scrutiny. And in that ambiguity, the conspiracies thrive.
Because for many believers, this isn’t about life on other planets. It’s about life on this one—and the belief that the government is hiding something monumental. That science is lying. That “they” don’t want us to know. The question of whether we’re alone has been replaced by a more intoxicating one: what are they hiding from us?
And once that question takes root, it doesn’t stay contained. The same distrust that fuels UFO lore spills into everything else—vaccines, elections, climate change. The conspiracy is never just about aliens. It’s about authority.
One of the most prominent is David Grusch, a former Air Force intelligence officer who testified to Congress in 2023 that the U.S. government was running a secret crash retrieval and reverse-engineering program for non-human craft. Grusch didn’t provide physical evidence. He claimed he couldn’t. But his story exploded anyway—because for the Disclosure faithful, the lack of evidence wasn’t a flaw. It was the point. The more he couldn’t say, the more serious it had to be.
Then there’s Steven Greer, a long-time Disclosure evangelist whose presentations weave together alien visitation, zero-point energy, anti-gravity tech, and shadow governments—all held back, he claims, by a global cabal that fears humanity’s awakening. His “evidence” ranges from declassified memos to blurry videos to secret briefings no one can verify—but that only makes it more compelling to his audience. Because in this world, proof is the trap. Only belief can set you free.
And of course, hovering above it all is Joe Rogan, the genre’s reluctant priest. He doesn’t claim to know the truth—but he knows the government is lying. He brings on Disclosure guests, asks open-ended questions, and ends every segment with “who knows, man?” And in doing so, he reinforces the central dogma of modern conspiracism: that the only thing we know for sure… is that we don’t know anything. And maybe we were never meant to.
I remember one of the first times I encountered this kind of belief system. I was just a kid when my family took me to see a man who claimed he could bend forks with his mind. He said he could heal people. Talk to aliens. That we were about to enter a new era of human evolution—and he was the messenger.
He didn’t seem like a fringe figure. He had followers. Media appearances. Awards. The people around me believed him, devotedly—after all, he could make the tips of his fingers glow in the dark. And for a moment, I almost did too.
Years later, I looked him up. He hadn’t disappeared. He’d expanded. Still talking about aliens. Still gathering followers. But now it was Flat Earth. Ancient secrets. Global conspiracies. The story had evolved—but the trick was the same.
That’s how it works. It starts with wonder. With awe. With a story that makes the world feel deeper, more meaningful, more connected. But once belief becomes identity, the story doesn’t stop.
It evolves. It metastasizes.
And eventually—it grows teeth.
Eric Weinstein and “Geometric Unity”
Not all conspiracy theorists look like tinfoil hat eccentrics. Some wear tailored suits, speak in calm tones, and hold PhDs from Ivy League schools. Eric Weinstein, a mathematician and former managing director of Thiel Capital, is one of them.
Weinstein doesn’t rant. He doesn’t froth. He warns—about captured institutions, corrupt gatekeepers, and a broken scientific establishment that’s silencing genius in favor of groupthink. At the center of it all is Geometric Unity—his own proposed “theory of everything,” which he claims unifies quantum mechanics and general relativity, a feat physicists have chased for decades.
But instead of submitting it for peer review, Weinstein has spent years discussing the theory in podcasts, YouTube videos, and Rogan interviews—insisting that the mainstream physics community is too fearful or compromised to engage with his work. In his telling, he’s not just a scientist. He’s a martyr. A Galileo locked out of the temple by a priesthood of cowards.
That’s the grift—and it’s subtle.
Because Weinstein’s not selling snake oil. He’s selling alienation. To those disillusioned with academia, he offers righteous indignation. To those frustrated by slow scientific progress, he offers a shortcut. To those who feel intellectually unrecognized, he offers a cult of exceptionalism—where the smartest person in the room is always the one being ignored.
And that’s where the conspiracy sets in. His attacks on “The Distributed Idea Suppression Complex” (or DISC) posit that there is a shadowy, unspoken collusion across science, journalism, and academia to suppress transformative ideas. Not because those ideas are flawed—but because they would upend the status quo.
That message is catnip to Rogan’s audience. And it slots neatly into a growing pattern: one where truth isn’t what survives scrutiny, but what powerful institutions try to keep hidden. It’s the same logic that fuels Ancient Apocalypse, anti-vaxx propaganda, and even Flat Earth. The details change. The story stays the same.
Weinstein doesn’t need to be right. He just needs to sound smarter than the people who tell you he’s wrong. And that’s all it takes for the conspiracy to spread.
The Cost of Wonder
Flat Earth. Moon hoaxes. Lost civilizations. Alien coverups.
On their surface, these stories seem harmless. Entertaining. Maybe even kind of fun.
But together, they form a slow-moving fire—one aimed not at power, but at perception.
They don’t need to be true. They just need to feel truer than the world that’s failing you.
Because if the Earth isn’t round, maybe the experts are lying.
If ancient civilizations held secret knowledge, maybe modern ones are hiding them.
If aliens are real, maybe the government really is covering everything up.
And if all that feels possible—then anything is.
These aren’t just distractions. They’re demolition crews.
They shatter the shared reality brick by brick—until all that’s left is belief.
And belief, unlike evidence, can be molded, weaponized, sold.
Some do it with spectacle. Some with story. Some, like Eric Weinstein, with intellectual seduction—offering the illusion of scientific rebellion while smuggling in epistemic rot.
Because once you’ve primed an audience to reject institutions, you don’t need to convince them of anything. Just position yourself as the one they can finally trust.
That’s how the bomb clears the field.
And in the crater it leaves behind—new prophets step forward.
Not to rebuild truth, but to sell its ashes as revelation.
The Medical Apostates
Not all conspiracy theorists shout. Some wear stethoscopes.
The most dangerous lies don’t always come from back alleys or fringe forums—they come from people with credentials, titles, and trust. Doctors. Scientists. Wellness gurus. They speak the language of authority while dismantling it from within. And in the era of mass distrust, that makes them irresistible.
They don’t need to scream about cabals or quote QAnon. They speak softly about “toxins,” “inflammation,” and “medical freedom.” They don’t call themselves prophets—but they offer deliverance from a corrupt system. And when institutions fail to live up to their promises, that deliverance sells.
These aren’t just people spreading misinformation. They are the architects of an alternate medical reality—one where science is a scam, public health is tyranny, and trust is a liability. They turn skepticism into status, fear into clicks, and pseudoscience into power. And one by one, they’re climbing the ladder from influencers to officials.
This isn’t the fringe anymore. It’s becoming the mainstream.
Andrew Wakefield
We’ve already told his story.
The lies. The fraud. The greed.
The fake diagnosis. The falsified data. The patent scheme. The blood samples taken from children at a birthday party.
Wakefield didn’t just launch a conspiracy theory—he opened a new front in the war on reality. And decades later, we’re still living in the world he built.
He was stripped of his medical license. His paper was retracted. His career was disgraced. But none of that mattered. Because the conspiracy didn’t need evidence to survive. It just needed usefulness. It offered answers to frightened parents. Purpose to failed systems. And identity to a movement built on distrust.
Wakefield didn’t create a theory.
He created a framework—one that every medical conspiracy since has borrowed from.
Today, RFK Jr. runs public health policy. Casey Means is one Senate vote away from being Surgeon General. Vaccine uptake is falling. Measles is back. And anti-vaxx propaganda is now a political platform.
Wakefield lit the fire.
Everyone else just learned how to breathe smoke.
Robert F. Kennedy Jr.
There is no greater symbol of how far conspiracism has come than Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—a man who once stood in the legacy of American idealism, and now serves as its betrayal.
For decades, RFK Jr. used his famous name to build credibility as an environmental lawyer and health advocate. But behind the veneer of activism was something else: a relentless, decades-long crusade against vaccines, public health, and scientific consensus. Long before COVID gave anti-vaxxers a political home, Kennedy was laying the groundwork—casting doubt on vaccine safety, attacking doctors and researchers, and spreading pseudoscience through glossy, well-funded platforms.
He didn’t just question Big Pharma. He vilified immunization itself. And the consequences were real.
In 2019, Kennedy traveled to Samoa, where he met with local anti-vaxxers and publicly questioned the safety of the MMR vaccine. That same year, vaccination rates collapsed. A massive measles outbreak followed, infecting more than 5,500 people and killing 83—most of them children. Is RFK Jr. solely responsible? No. But morally? Unquestionably. He showed up. He spread doubt. And people died.
That’s the story of his career. Behind every headline and every high-minded soundbite is the same toxic pattern: exploit distrust, twist facts, and then walk away when the bodies hit the floor.
Kennedy has claimed that vaccines cause autism, that the COVID vaccine is part of a government surveillance project, that 5G towers are part of a mind control grid, and that HIV may not cause AIDS. He has compared vaccine mandates to Nazi Germany. He has promoted conspiracy theories about Anthony Fauci, Bill Gates, and digital ID programs. And now—he is Secretary of Health and Human Services.
This isn’t just fringe rhetoric anymore. It’s federal power. The man who spent years dismantling trust in public health now oversees the nation’s response to disease. And every time he spreads another lie, another thread of our reality unravels.
He doesn’t scream like Alex Jones. He doesn’t wear a tin foil hat. He wears a suit, a legacy, and a smile. But his mission is the same: dismantle trust, elevate paranoia, and turn science into the enemy.
RFK Jr. didn’t just join the conspiracy movement. He legitimized it. Elevated it. And now, he governs it. What has he been up to as HHS Secretary, you ask? He just fired the CDC’s entire Vaccine Advisory Committee.
Casey & Calley Means
They don’t rant. They don’t post memes. They don’t wear MAGA hats.
They wear lab coats. Talk about “metabolic health.” Go on podcasts. Smile politely while undermining decades of medical science.
Casey and Calley Means are the new face of conspiracism: clean, marketable, and terrifyingly effective. Casey is the co-founder of Levels Health, a wellness startup that packages pseudo-science in the language of tech disruption. She talks about inflammation, glucose spikes, and longevity hacks—while promoting platforms and narratives that cast mainstream medicine as corrupt, captured, or obsolete. Her brother Calley is a longtime RFK Jr. surrogate, helping sell Kennedy’s anti-vaxx crusade as cutting-edge insight instead of dangerous propaganda.
But this isn’t just about influence anymore. It’s about power.
Thanks to RFK Jr.’s endorsement, Casey Means has now been nominated to serve as Surgeon General of the United States. Her confirmation is still pending—but if approved, she would become the country’s chief public health spokesperson. Not a seasoned epidemiologist. Not a leader in vaccine deployment. But a biohacking influencer with ties to one of the most dangerous anti-science movements in modern history.
Together, the Means siblings embody a new evolution of the conspiracy ecosystem: one that doesn’t scream from the fringe, but sells itself as innovation. Their enemy isn’t just the government. It’s the very idea of medical consensus.
And if you think that’s fringe?
She’s one Senate vote away from becoming America’s doctor.
Bret Weinstein & Heather Heying
They began as intellectual martyrs—champions of “free inquiry” who refused to bow to campus orthodoxy. When Bret Weinstein and Heather Heying resigned from Evergreen State College after a high-profile clash over racial equity, they didn’t just leave academia. They became symbols of a movement: heterodox, principled, persecuted.
But over time, something shifted.
They weren’t just criticizing institutions. They were replacing them.
Not with science. But with certainty.
Through their podcast DarkHorse, Bret and Heather cast themselves as truth-tellers in exile. Experts without a platform. Scientists under siege. And when COVID hit, they found their holy war.
They promoted Ivermectin as a miracle cure long after the evidence collapsed. They cast doubt on mRNA vaccines, suggesting mass cover-ups by public health agencies. They platformed voices like Dr. Robert Malone, who popularized the “mass formation psychosis” theory to explain vaccine compliance. And all the while, they framed themselves as reluctant heroes—forced into conspiracism by a world that wouldn’t listen.
But make no mistake: this wasn’t reluctant. It was profitable. And deliberate.
They used their credentials—PhDs in evolutionary biology—to shield their theories from scrutiny, painting critics as ideologues and sheep. They didn’t scream like Alex Jones. They didn’t insult like Marjorie Taylor Greene. Instead, they reasoned their way into paranoia—offering a new kind of conspiracy theory: one that sounded like a seminar and felt like a sermon.
And that’s what makes them so effective.
Because Bret and Heather don’t just question authority. They perform credibility. They make distrust feel smart. And for thousands of followers, that’s all it takes.
They didn’t get pushed out of science.
They walked away—and took a chunk of the public with them.
Dr. Robert Malone
Robert Malone presents himself as a whistleblower. A truth-teller. A scientist betrayed by his own creation. But strip away the drama, and what you get is something more dangerous: a man who turned credentials into conspiracy—and made a second career out of undermining the very science he helped advance.
Malone was involved in early research on mRNA technology in the late 1980s. He did not invent the COVID vaccines, nor is he the sole “inventor of mRNA vaccines,” as he often claims. But that sliver of truth is all he needed. It became his shield—proof that he wasn’t just another crank. He was an insider. A pioneer. Someone who knows what they don’t want you to know.
And what he wants you to believe is this: that the COVID vaccines are dangerous. That public health agencies are covering it up. That the world is in the grip of “mass formation psychosis”—a pseudo-psychological theory he helped popularize to explain why people trust institutions instead of his contrarian narrative.
Malone didn’t just question vaccine policy. He cast the entire global pandemic response as a coordinated psychological operation. He appeared on Joe Rogan’s podcast, on Tucker Carlson’s show, and on stages across the far-right speaking circuit. Everywhere he went, he told the same story: that he was being silenced because he was telling the truth. And the more he said it, the more followers he gained—and the more trust in medicine collapsed.
But Malone isn’t being silenced. He’s being amplified. Not because he’s right, but because his message is useful: to grifters, to propagandists, and to a movement that thrives on betrayal.
He didn’t invent mRNA vaccines.
But he’s doing everything he can to destroy them—and the public’s faith in what made them possible.
Dr. Joseph Mercola
If Andrew Wakefield is the godfather of medical disinformation, Dr. Joseph Mercola is its business model.
He built an empire on the premise that everything you’ve been told about health is a lie—and that he alone has the truth. That truth comes with a price tag, of course: supplements, detox kits, miracle cures, EMF blockers, and endless books warning you that the food, water, air, and medicine around you are all part of a vast, coordinated assault on your body and your freedom.
Mercola doesn’t just spread conspiracies. He sells them.
And he’s made a fortune doing it. In 2021, the New York Times identified Mercola as one of the most influential spreaders of COVID-19 misinformation in the world. His articles questioned the effectiveness of masks, promoted unproven treatments, and cast vaccines as part of a sinister plot. His social media content reached millions—despite repeated bans, removals, and fact-checks. His solution was always the same: don’t trust the system. Trust me. And while you're here, buy this supplement.
He frames himself as a renegade physician, persecuted for speaking truth to power. In reality, he’s been warned repeatedly by the FDA for making false claims about curing cancer and other serious illnesses with unapproved products. He’s not fighting the system. He’s profiting off its collapse.
And that’s what makes him so dangerous.
Because Mercola doesn’t look like a radical. He looks like a doctor.
He doesn’t rant about New World Orders or Jewish space lasers. He talks about oxidative stress. He uses citations. He sounds reasonable. Until you realize that every word is designed to erode trust in evidence-based medicine and steer you toward his own private marketplace of fear.
He’s not just an entrepreneur. He’s an ecosystem.
And in the world Wakefield built, he’s the man who turned it into a business.
Sherri Tenpenny
Sherri Tenpenny is what happens when conspiracism gets ordained.
An osteopathic doctor turned anti-vaccine crusader, Tenpenny has spent years building a brand around medical paranoia cloaked in religious righteousness. She’s claimed vaccines cause everything from autism to infertility to demonic possession. During the COVID pandemic, she told audiences that vaccinated people could magnetize metal objects and “interface with 5G towers.” None of it is true. None of it matters. Her followers don’t want facts. They want faith—and she delivers.
Tenpenny doesn’t just push conspiracies. She sanctifies them. She blends medical misinformation with Christian nationalism, claiming that resisting vaccines isn’t just a personal choice—it’s a spiritual duty. Her sermons double as science denial. Her science doubles as warfare against imagined globalist cabals.
And like many others in this movement, her disinformation is profitable. She runs seminars, courses, and “boot camps” for medical freedom. She promotes detox kits, supplements, and legal defense strategies. She tells her followers they’re victims of tyranny—and then sells them the tools to fight back.
In 2023, her medical license was suspended after she repeatedly refused to cooperate with an investigation into her public health misinformation. But in the conspiracy economy, accountability is marketing. She wore the suspension like a badge of honor—proof that the system fears her, not that it failed because of her.
Tenpenny isn’t some fringe figure shouting from the dark. She’s built a megaphone, a ministry, and a market. And for those already primed to distrust science and worship authority, she offers the perfect fusion: God wants you to reject the vaccine.
From Fringe to Frontline
We used to worry about snake oil salesmen. Now they run the country’s health agencies.
The medical conspiracy movement has evolved—from quacks and grifters to cabinet secretaries and would-be Surgeon Generals. What began with a fake paper in The Lancet has metastasized into a political machine, one that reaches into our pharmacies, our classrooms, and our living rooms.
These aren’t isolated actors. They’re part of a system now. A belief economy where evidence is optional, and every medical breakthrough is recast as betrayal. Where distrust is profitable. And where public health is treated not as a shared good—but as an enemy campaign.
They’re not just walking away from science. They’re trying to burn it down—and build a church from the rubble. And if we don’t fight to reclaim truth, they won’t just build that church—they’ll replace medicine with its dogma.
The Government Truthers
They don’t ask questions. They make accusations.
They don’t hint at doubt. They declare war.
This is where the conspiracy movement hits its terminal velocity. Where the questions stop, and the indictments begin.
Here, the government isn’t just hiding secrets—it’s running death camps.
The elites aren’t just corrupt—they’re harvesting children.
And every lie becomes a reason to take up arms.
This isn’t skepticism. It’s sabotage. And its goal isn’t just to undermine democracy—it’s to destroy it by total annihilation of institutional trust.
The Tyranny Narrative: 9/11, FEMA Camps, and the Rise of Alex Jones
Not every conspiracy theorist thinks the government is lying. Some think it’s plotting. Waiting. Preparing for a moment when it will finally strike—enslaving its citizens, dismantling the Constitution, and erecting a system of totalitarian control. For these believers, America isn’t slipping into tyranny. It’s already there.
This is the world of the tyranny narrative.
And no one has done more to build it than Alex Jones.
Jones rose to prominence in the aftermath of 9/11, claiming the attacks were a false flag operation—an inside job designed to justify endless war, domestic surveillance, and the erosion of civil liberties. He wasn’t the first to say it. But he was the loudest, the most persistent, and the most profitable. While others whispered in chatrooms, Jones screamed into a microphone. He called the towers a “Reichstag fire,” accused President Bush of orchestrating mass murder, and promised that the next step would be even worse.
It was.
Because once you believe your government murdered 3,000 people to start a war, everything becomes plausible.
That’s when FEMA camps enter the story.
For years, Jones claimed that the Federal Emergency Management Agency wasn’t preparing for natural disasters—it was preparing for mass incarceration. That secret detention centers were being built across the country. That railroad cars were being fitted with shackles. That plastic coffins were being stockpiled for the bodies of patriots who dared to resist. Every government action became a breadcrumb leading to martial law. Every crisis became a setup for mass control.
And to millions of listeners, it made perfect sense.
Jones didn’t need facts. He had emotion. Rage. Certainty. And most importantly—products. Because as he screamed about fluoride in the water and FEMA death camps, he also sold brain supplements, anti-radiation gear, male enhancement pills, and patriot-branded water filters. His store was a bunker. His show was the siren. He wasn’t just warning about tyranny. He was monetizing it.
And it worked. At the height of his influence, Infowars pulled in tens of millions of dollars a year. Not from ads. From fear. From men who thought they were the last free Americans, stocking up on supplements and silver to survive the coming storm. The tyranny was always coming. And if it never arrived? That just meant it was even more important to prepare.
That’s how Jones built a religion of resistance. And for some, it didn’t stop at preparation—it ended in violence. His claims that Sandy Hook was a hoax led to years of harassment for grieving families. His cries of government plots fueled standoffs, militias, and radicalization. And even after he was ordered to pay over a billion dollars in defamation damages, his influence didn’t vanish. It metastasized.
Because the tyranny narrative isn’t about Alex Jones anymore.
It’s about the world he helped build: one where the government is never just wrong—it’s evil. One where every tragedy is a setup. One where every civic duty is a trap. One where the only path forward is rebellion. And that rebellion is always just around the corner.
He didn’t create the paranoia. But he gave it a voice. A soundtrack. A shopping cart.
And now that the nightmare is real—now that Trump is flooding the streets of L.A. with federalized guardsmen and Marines against California’s will… now that American toddlers—some with cancer—are being deported… now that law abinding asylum seekers with no criminal record are being renditioned to El Salvador’s CECOT, a black site where rumor says no one comes out alive…
Now that the government is finally becoming the monster he always warned about?
He has nothing to say.
Because the tyrant wears his team’s jersey. Because the fascist is good for business.
Because the ones cheering it all on?
They’re his best customers.
QAnon
There’s a reason it all led here.
Because once you’ve learned to distrust science, deny history, and see cover-ups in every institution—there’s only one place left to go:
The belief that the entire world is being controlled by a hidden force.
That everything you see is a lie.
That behind the government… is the real government.
That’s QAnon.
It began in 2017, with a series of anonymous posts on 4chan from someone calling themselves “Q”—a supposed government insider with high-level security clearance. Q didn’t tell you what to think. He gave you clues. Riddles. Promises. Hints of a hidden war waged by white hats deep inside the intelligence community—a war to expose and destroy a globalist cabal of Satan-worshipping pedophiles embedded in media, politics, and Hollywood.
Hillary Clinton was their puppet. Barack Obama, their architect. The CIA, the FBI, the courts, the scientists, the journalists—all compromised. And Donald Trump?
He wasn’t just a president. He was a messiah.
The only one who could stop the Deep State.
This wasn’t just a conspiracy theory. It was a prophecy.
Q predicted mass arrests. Secret trials. Military tribunals. Executions at Guantanamo Bay. A final reckoning called The Storm—when Trump would unmask the traitors and purge the evil from the land.
None of it ever happened.
But that didn’t matter. Because QAnon had already become something far more dangerous than a theory.
It became a faith.
Followers held prayer circles. Created anthems. Printed T-shirts. Tattooed symbols. They didn’t just believe—they belonged. And like all cults, QAnon offered everything its believers had lost: meaning, identity, purpose, purity. It gave them villains to hate and a savior to worship. It made them feel chosen.
And it only got darker:
That JFK Jr. faked his death and would return to run as Trump’s VP.
That COVID was engineered by the cabal to microchip humanity.
That Hillary Clinton ran a child trafficking ring out of a pizzeria in D.C.—one so secretive, it operated from a basement that didn’t even exist.
That celebrities, journalists, and politicians had already been executed and replaced with clones.
That the Deep State was real—and that every institution in America was under its control.
You can laugh. But the costs are real.
QAnon has inspired kidnappings, murders, and armed standoffs. It helped fuel the January 6th insurrection. And it didn’t stay in the shadows. It walked straight into Congress.
Marjorie Taylor Greene wasn’t elected in spite of QAnon. She was elected because of it.
She didn’t run on infrastructure. She ran on blood libel and deep state delusions. She posted about Jewish space lasers, 9/11 being an inside job, and Democrats harvesting children’s blood. She chased a teenage school shooting survivor through the streets of Washington, calling him a crisis actor in the mass shooting that took his friends’ lives.
In any sane era, she’d be in a padded room without windows.
In ours, she became Chairwoman of the House Oversight Subcommittee on Government Efficiency.
Because QAnon didn’t just radicalize its followers.
It gave them political power.
This is what happens when delusion becomes doctrine.
When fantasy becomes governance.
When a movement doesn’t just believe in a secret war—but starts acting like it’s already won.
The storm didn’t come.
But the collapse it prophesied?
It’s already underway, by the hand of its very believers.
QAnon isn’t a dead cult.
It’s an operating system.
It installs itself quietly. Corrupts trust. Hijacks the machinery of thought.
It was never fringe.
It was never silly.
It was always the destination.
And it’s far from over.
Jeffrey Epstein: The Conspiracy That Was Real—Until It Pointed at Trump
Most conspiracy theories are born from smoke without fire. But Jeffrey Epstein was different.
He wasn’t a theory. He was real. A billionaire predator who trafficked underage girls, weaponized his wealth, and surrounded himself with the rich and powerful—some of whom may have participated in or covered up his crimes. He operated in plain sight, kept hidden by influence, intimidation, and a justice system all too willing to look the other way.
And when he finally faced federal charges in 2019, he turned up dead in a federal prison. The cameras failed. The guards fell asleep. And the country lost one of its most important witnesses—forever.
It was the perfect storm for conspiracism. And they were right to be suspicious.
But not honest.
Because for all their talk about Epstein, the conspiracy world has a glaring blind spot: Donald Trump.
They’ll show you grainy photos of Epstein with Bill Clinton. They’ll cite flight logs and friendly emails. But what they’ll never mention? That Trump and Epstein weren’t just acquaintances. Epstein is on tape saying he and Trump were best friends. There are videos of them partying together, laughing together, flirting with teenage girls together. Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell were frequent guests at Mar-a-Lago. And long before the world knew what Epstein was, Trump himself joked: “He’s a terrific guy. It is even said that he likes beautiful women as much as I do—and many of them are on the younger side.”
But it goes deeper.
When Epstein was first facing federal sex trafficking charges, the man who brokered the sweetheart deal that let him walk nearly scot-free was Alex Acosta—then the U.S. Attorney in Florida. A decade later, Trump didn’t shun him. He rewarded him—appointing Acosta to his Cabinet as Secretary of Labor. Because in Trump’s world, the people who let monsters off the hook don’t get sidelined. They get promoted—as long as you and the monster are “best friends.”
And when Epstein finally ended up in federal prison under Trump’s DOJ—when he was the most high-profile detainee in the country, when every eye should’ve been watching—the guards failed. The cameras failed. And the man in charge of the entire federal prison system—the man at the very top—was Donald Trump.
But try bringing that up in a QAnon thread. See how fast you get banned.
Because this was the moment. This was the one conspiracy they should’ve followed. A real monster. Real victims. Real corruption. A real cover-up. But when the truth started pointing back to their messiah, they bailed. They didn’t want the truth. They wanted a scapegoat. And when Epstein’s story threatened to expose the rot in their own house, they closed the door.
Jeffrey Epstein is the conspiracy that was real. And that’s what makes him so dangerous. Because he proved that the world can be this evil. That elites can protect monsters. That the system can let them walk.
But instead of using that truth to demand justice, the conspiracy movement used it to build fiction—so long as it didn’t threaten their king.
Because when it finally did?
They turned the page. And looked away.
Because the one true thing about every conspiracy theorist?
They never wanted the truth—
They can’t handle the truth.
That’s why they end up in rabbit holes to begin with:
Not to find answers—
But to escape a broken world, often by their own hands.
If You Believe in This Fight, Help Keep It Alive
There’s still more below, I just need a moment of your time.
The American Manifesto isn’t backed by corporations. There are no ads, no paywalls, no billionaires funding it.
It’s just one person, fighting like hell to expose the truth and give you the weapons to push back.
If you value this work—if you want this movement to keep growing, keep calling out fascism without fear, and keep fighting for the future we deserve—then I need your support.
Join the fight. Become a supporter. Every contribution keeps this mission alive.
Because silence is surrender. We do not surrender. We are #TheRelentless.
Were They Coopted?
The Conspiracy Theorists were never truly coopted. They can’t be. You can’t steer chaos.
But chaos has gravity—and it pulls things into orbit.
While the Fascists, Fake Christians, and Corporatists destroy institutions through abuse, Conspiracy Theorists destroy them by eroding trust. The goals aren’t the same. But the wreckage is shared. And so is the benefit.
Because the relationship is mutual.
The fascist coalition thrives when people give up on truth. On journalism. On science. On law.
Conspiracy theorists thrive in institutional failure. On corruption. On the breakdown of the safety net. On extreme wealth inequality. On stagnant wages. On wars based on lies. On widespread misinformation.
Vietnam and Watergate primed the soil for UFOs and moon landing conspiracies.
The War on Terror and the surveillance state gave rise to FEMA camps and 9/11 truthers.
Economic crashes fueled Deep State paranoia.
And when our fragmented, polarized media landscape shattered all remaining consensus, QAnon was born.
Then, when COVID hit, the conspiracy floodgates blew open.
Meanwhile…
Every time a conspiracy theorist destroys trust in government, the fascists step in—
“Only we can fix it.”
“Here’s your scapegoat.”
“They are the problem.”
Every time a conspiracy theorist questions science, the fake Christians come right up—
“God is the only answer.”
“We need more family values.”
“Do as we say, or you’ll burn in hell.”
Every time a conspiracy theorist screams about secret cabals, the corporatists whisper—
“Regulation is the real enemy.”
“Care to buy another AR-15?”
“How about some gold coins?”
With each abuse, each betrayal, each institutional failure—
the more rot there is for conspiracies to fester on.
And like vultures circling over dying cattle, the conspiracy theorists wait—
ready for their feast.
The conspiracies don’t have to be consistent.
They just have to explain—
why their anointed king is not actually a felon;
why the king’s pedophile best friend is somebody else’s problem;
why they’re not the fascists—while they ban books and hunt scapegoats;
why the monster in the mirror is someone else;
why it’s not their fault that their world is broken.
And so, the cycle goes...
So no, they weren’t coopted. But they are, in every way, symbiotic.
The coalition breaks the world.
The conspiracy theorists explain how someone else did it.
You Can’t Ride the Tiger
I could sit here—like I’ve done with every other subgroup—and pretend that there’s a smart way to divide them. That there are wedge issues we can exploit. That we might coax them back with the right message, the right values, the right kind of truth.
But then I’d either be a fool—like the coalition, thinking they can ride the tiger.
Or a con man—like the conspiracy theorists themselves, selling you a new miracle pill.
Because this isn’t a group you can reason with. You can’t infiltrate a cult of unreality with facts, or outmaneuver chaos with clever strategy.
The only way to defeat the conspiracy movement is to starve it.
To fix the cracks they fester in.
To rebuild the trust they thrive on destroying.
And that means mending what’s been broken—not just the institutions, but the people who once believed in them.
How do we do that?
Join us in Part 9: The Blue-Collars
The betrayed everyman. The linchpin. The last firewall between democracy and despair.
← Back to the Beginning of the Series
Wakefield, A. J., et al. “RETRACTED: Ileal-lymphoid-nodular hyperplasia, non-specific colitis, and pervasive developmental disorder in children.” The Lancet, vol. 351, no. 9103, 1998, pp. 637–641. Link
This is the infamous 1998 study that sparked the anti-vaccine movement, later retracted for ethical violations and fraudulent data.
Madsen, Kreesten Meldgaard, et al. “A Population-Based Study of Measles, Mumps, and Rubella Vaccination and Autism.” New England Journal of Medicine, vol. 347, no. 19, 2002, pp. 1477–1482. Link
This landmark Danish study tracked over 537,000 children and found no link between the MMR vaccine and autism—one of the largest and most definitive studies ever conducted on the subject.
Honda, Hideo, Yasuo Shimizu, and Michael Rutter. “No effect of MMR withdrawal on the incidence of autism: a total population study.” Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, vol. 46, no. 6, 2005, pp. 572–579. Link
This Japanese study found that autism rates continued to rise even after the MMR vaccine was completely withdrawn, strongly refuting any causal link.
Taylor, Luke E., Amy L. Swerdfeger, and Guy D. Eslick. “Vaccines are not associated with autism: an evidence-based meta-analysis of case-control and cohort studies.” Vaccine, vol. 32, no. 29, 2014, pp. 3623–3629. Link
This 2014 meta-analysis of over 1.2 million children across 10 studies found no link between vaccines and autism—debunking not only the MMR-autism claim, but also concerns about thimerosal and mercury.
Deer, Brian. “MMR doctor given legal aid thousands.” The Sunday Times, 31 Dec. 2006. Archived at Link
An investigation by journalist Brian Deer revealed that Wakefield was paid over £435,000 by lawyers preparing a lawsuit against vaccine manufacturers—two years before publishing his study. The payments were never disclosed, representing a major conflict of interest.
Berger, Abi. “Dispatches. MMR: What They Didn't Tell You.” BMJ, vol. 329, no. 7477, 2004, p. 1293. Link
This BMJ review of Brian Deer’s Channel 4 documentary reveals that Wakefield filed a patent for a monovalent measles vaccine and related treatments nine months before his press conference—exposing a financial motive behind his campaign to discredit MMR.
Deer, Brian. “Wakefield’s ‘autistic enterocolitis’ under the microscope.” BMJ, vol. 340, 2010, c1127. Link
This 2010 BMJ investigation details how Wakefield coined the term “autistic enterocolitis” to describe a bowel condition in autistic children—despite pathology reports showing normal or unremarkable results in most cases. The condition has never been validated by the scientific community.
Stein, Rob. “Wakefield tried to capitalize on autism-vaccine link, report says.” The Washington Post, 11 Jan. 2011. Archived at Link
Following his MMR claims, Wakefield projected profits of over $43 million per year from selling diagnostic kits for “autistic enterocolitis”—the very condition his discredited study promoted. The kits were part of a broader commercialization plan tied directly to his fabricated research.
Steinmetz, Peter N. “The Scientific Frauds Underlying the False MMR Vaccine–Autism Link.” Skeptical Inquirer, vol. 44, no. 6, Nov./Dec. 2020. Archived at Link
This summary of Wakefield’s misconduct outlines six major scientific and ethical frauds in the 1998 Lancet paper, including falsified medical histories, altered timelines, fake diagnoses, unethical sample collection, and undisclosed conflicts of interest—all designed to fabricate a link between MMR and autism.
Deer, Brian. “Wakefield buys blood at birthday party.” BrianDeer.com. Archived at Link
Wakefield openly admitted to drawing blood from children as young as four at his son’s birthday party, paying them £5 apiece. The UK’s General Medical Council later condemned the act as unethical, callous, and a serious breach of medical standards—contributing to his being struck off the medical register.
Triggle, Nick. “MMR doctor struck from register.” BBC News, 24 May 2010. Link
The UK’s General Medical Council found Wakefield guilty of over 30 charges of serious professional misconduct, including unethical testing on children, lack of ethical approval, and undisclosed financial conflicts. He was permanently struck off the medical register for bringing the profession into disrepute.
Boseley, Sarah. “Lancet retracts 'utterly false' MMR paper.” The Guardian, 2 Feb. 2010. Link
After the General Medical Council’s verdict, The Lancet retracted Wakefield’s 1998 paper in full. Editor Richard Horton called the paper’s statements “utterly false” and said he had been deceived, marking a definitive and public rejection of Wakefield’s fraudulent work.