The world’s a little quieter today, and not in a good way.

Ozzy Osbourne, the Prince of Darkness, and Hulk Hogan, the bleach-blonde titan of the squared circle, are gone. Both kicked the bucket this week: Ozzy at 76, surrounded by family, and Hogan at 71, felled by a cardiac arrest. The news hit like a chair to the back of the head, and while Malcolm-Jamaal Warner joins these two this week in a grim trifecta, I want to pause to consider what Ozzy and Hulk meant, not just to their fans but to a culture that’s increasingly allergic to raw, unfiltered humanity.

Ozzy was a mess. A drug-addled, bat-biting mumbling madman who somehow made Black Sabbath the soundtrack of rebellion for kids who didn’t know they were rebelling against anything. The man wasn’t just a rock star, he was a middle finger to all the suits who thought music should be polite. The half wail, half growl of his voice carried the weight of every misfit who ever felt the world didn’t want them. And yet, he was no saint. The guy stumbled through life, leaving a trail of chaos from his arrests to his reality TV circus. But that’s the point: Ozzy never pretended to be something he wasn’t. In a world obsessed with curated perfection he was gloriously, messily real.

Hogan, on the other hand, was a different kind of beast. He was the larger than life hero of the ’80s, telling kids to say their prayers and eat their vitamins while body-slamming André the Giant. In a world where wrestling is theater, Hogan was a Shakespearean ham, all charisma and catchphrases.

Sure, he had his scandals—steroids, lawsuits, that whole racist sex tape thing. But at his peak, the Hulkster was the man and everyone loved him. He was the guy who made you believe, for a fleeting moment, the good guys could win with a leg drop and a flex. Even if you knew it was scripted, you cheered anyway.

What ties these two together this week isn’t just their deaths, or that they were both WWE Hall of Famers. It’s that they were unapologetic. Ozzy didn’t care if you clutched your pearls when he slurred through “Paranoid.” Hogan didn’t blink when he ripped off his shirt for the 10,000th time. They were who they were and they owned it. Honestly, it’s something this era of sanctimonious posturing could learn from. Today, we’d cancel Ozzy for his lyrics and Hogan for his politics, but back then, they were giants because they didn’t ask permission to exist.

The law, of course, had its run-ins with both. Ozzy faced censorship battles over “Suicide Solution,” with parents claiming it drove kids to off themselves. Never mind the song was actually about his own alcoholism—facts don’t matter when there’s a moral panic to fuel. Hogan, meanwhile took on Gawker in court and won, a rare victory for privacy in a world that loves to tear people down. Both men, in their way, fought the system and came out scarred but standing.

Now they’re gone and the Interwebs are churning with tributes and hot takes. Some are going to call these men legends. Others are going to dig up their sins. Me? I say they were human, flawed and louder than life. They didn’t bend to the mob, and that’s worth something.

So raise a glass—or a steel folding chair—for Ozzy and the Hulk. They reminded us you don’t have to be perfect to be unforgettable.

See y’all next week. I’m going to hug my kids.