There are filmmakers you respect, and then there’s Mike Judge; our unassuming, soft-spoken Nostradamus of middlebrow America. If Kubrick dissected humanity’s cosmic anxieties, Spielberg gave us wide-eyed wonder, and Peckinpah immortalized men shooting each other in slow motion, Judge simply told us the truth about ourselves; usually while wearing a pair of sensible sneakers. He’s never been the flashiest director, nor the loudest satirist, but time and again, he has looked at American life with a raised eyebrow and a deceptively simple question: What if we just told it like it is?
Beavis and Butt-Head was his anarchic Big Bang; a crude, gleefully dumb cartoon about two teenage idiots that accidentally became a thesis on media, consumerism, and how easily an entire generation could be amused by headbanging to AC/DC. It was absurd, prophetic, and it launched MTV into cultural orbit. Office Space followed, a quiet little workplace comedy that has since become a cultural touchstone for anyone who has ever fought with a malfunctioning printer or dead-eyed their boss while hearing the phrase “cover sheet on the TPS reports.” And then there was Idiocracy; once dismissed as cartoonishly cynical, now regarded as a documentary with jokes, a film so prophetic that every year we find new ways to say, “Oh God, Mike Judge called it.”
But Judge’s magnum opus was, and remains, King of the Hill. Running for thirteen years, it was the anti-Family Guy: an animated slice of Americana so dry it was practically jerky, a show that didn’t aim for shock value or rapid-fire punchlines but instead found comedy in the profound mundanity of everyday life. Hank Hill; suburban Texan, propane salesman, and avatar of earnest decency; was both laughably square and strangely noble, a man who could change your tire but not his worldview. Beside him was Peggy, equal parts competitive and delusional, his eccentric neighbors, and Bobby; the son who didn’t quite fit Hank’s mold of manhood, but whom Hank loved all the more for it.
Now, fifteen years after the series ended, Judge has brought the Hills back, aged in real time as though the characters simply lived their lives off-screen while we weren’t watching. Hank and Peggy are retired, struggling to navigate their post-propane golden years. Bobby is 21 and, in a move both surreal and completely logical, has become the head chef and co-owner of a wildly popular German-Asian fusion restaurant; because of course Bobby Hill would be a culinary wunderkind, delivering sincere monologues about meat integrity while still being the same goofy kid who once proudly declared, “That’s my purse! I don’t know you!”
Arlen itself has changed, too. Boomhauer now has a stepkid. Dale Gribble; ever the conspiracy theorist; somehow ran for mayor (and you get the sense that in 2024, that isn’t even implausible). Bill Dauterive has, predictably, expanded horizontally and emotionally, still nursing his hopeless crush on Peggy. And in a small but poignant twist, Hank and Peggy reveal they spent a portion of their absence in Saudi Arabia working for a propane company; an ironic nod to Hank’s obsession finally paying off financially, only for him to return to the same modest Arlen home he left. Because for Hank, this is paradise: his house, his grill, his neighbors, his Alamo beer.
The revival works because Judge and company resist the cheap thrill of nostalgia. There are no overwrought callbacks, no forced “remember this?” cameos. Instead, the show simply moves forward, as if nothing had changed except time itself. Hank still delivers perfect deadpan zingers; at one point, reluctantly dancing the Cha Cha Slide and muttering in his Texas drawl, “I like my dances with clear instructions.” It’s such a perfectly Hank Hill moment that it feels like the writers must have been saving that line for 15 years.
The original cast returns; Stephen Root’s Bill remains both pathetic and lovable, Lauren Tom continues as both Connie and Minh, and the late Johnny Hardwick provides a bittersweet final turn as Dale. There are tender nods to cast members who’ve passed, but King of the Hill never wallows in grief. Like Hank himself, the show simply keeps going, stoic and true, embracing the passage of time rather than mourning it.
And in many ways, that’s the secret of Judge’s brilliance. While so many shows chase the dopamine rush of nostalgia or political hot takes, Judge remains committed to a subtler kind of satire; the kind that watches, listens, and simply points out the absurdities of ordinary life. Season 14 finds space to poke fun at the pandemic, masks, new technology, and changing social norms, but it never preaches. Instead, it asks, “How would Hank react to this?” and follows that thread to its deadpan conclusion.
The season’s ten episodes explore arcs both big and small: Bobby reconnecting with Connie in their twenties, Hank figuring out what retirement even means (investing in businesses, mentoring young men, playing football at the Cowboys training facility), and Peggy doing what Peggy does best; finding new and ambitious ways to mildly annoy everyone around her. There’s even a painfully funny scene in which Hank, ever the polite Texan carnivore, forces himself to endure dinner with Bobby’s vegetarian date.
By the end of the first episode, titled “Return of the King,” it’s clear this isn’t just a revival; it’s a continuation of a world that never really ended. Arlen feels lived-in, unchanged but not stagnant, just like the best small towns in Texas. The humor remains bone-dry, the emotional beats feel earned, and the show’s heart; Hank’s steady, unwavering decency, still anchors everything.
Mike Judge may never get an actual spot on Mount Rushmore, but if there’s a version reserved for the quiet satirists who truly get America; its flaws, its quirks, its stubborn charm; then Judge deserves to be up there, perhaps chiseling propane tanks instead of presidential profiles.
Season 14 of King of the Hill is proof that some shows don’t need reinvention to stay relevant. They just need to keep being themselves. It’s still funny, still tender, and still sneakily profound; the kind of show that makes you laugh out loud, then feel unexpectedly moved when Hank awkwardly tells Bobby he’s proud of him, even if it’s during “the aftermath” of an intimate night. Here’s to 14 more seasons, and to Mike Judge: the most unlikely visionary of them all. Highest Recommendation.
