The sad hilarity.
Blessings and bullets. my children.
On a crisp September morning in 2025, outside the grim façade of Manhattan’s Supreme Court, a gaggle of still-born buffoons —dressed like rejected extras from a Super Mario Bros. reboot—gathered not to protest injustice, but to high-five over the partial acquittal of a guy accused of turning a health insurance exec into Swiss cheese.
Luigi Mangione, the 27-year-old Ivy League whiz kid turned alleged assassin, shuffled into court on September 16, shackled and pale as a ghost, facing charges for gunning down UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson in cold blood back in December 2024.
FASHION NOTE: Luigi’s heavy unibrow looked very well arched, groomed and newly threaded.
The judge tossed the terrorism add-ons, leaving second-degree murder to boil up, through to the surface, like a good case of tertiary syphilis. And what did the crowd do? They cheered. They hugged. They chanted “Free Luigi!” like he was some misunderstood folk hero, not a dude whose diary reads like the unhinged fanfic of a Redditor who finally snapped.
Let’s paint the picture, shall we? Dozens of these oddballs—some camping out overnight like it’s Coachella for sociopaths—lined up for seats, fanning themselves with yellow index cards like VIP passes to a serial killer convention.
One woman rocked a full green getup, shirt emblazoned with the mustachioed plumber from Nintendo, because nothing says “serious political statement” like confusing a murderer with a video game sidekick.
“Free Luigi!” T-shirts fluttered in the breeze, alongside signs screaming “Healthcare is a Human Right” and “Not Guilty,” as if scribbling platitudes on poster board erases the fact that Thompson left behind a widow and kids who probably don’t appreciate the cosplay.
And when the gavel dropped on those terrorism counts?
Eruption. Cheers. Applause. Hugs. One fan whined to reporters that seeing Mangione in shackles was “obscene” and that he looked “really, really pale”—as if the guy’s jailhouse pallor was the real crime here, not the bullet-riddled corpse he allegedly left on a Midtown sidewalk.
Who are these freaks? Picture the underbelly of the internet come to life: the keyboard warriors who’ve spent nine months rage-retweeting about “corporate greed” while bingeing true-crime docs and wondering why their own lives suck.
They’re the ones who flooded Mangione’s legal fund to the tune of $1.2 million—small $5 donations from broke millennials mixed with $100 “solidarity” bucks from trust-fund anarchists—turning a murder trial into a Patreon for performative outrage.
You’ve got law students in the mix, aspiring J.D.s who think “jury nullification” is code for “let my anti-hero walk.” Many of these misfits hate their own fathers and imagine him getting getting gunned down. Take that for a psychological instant analysis.
Anti-fascist signs bobbed in the crowd, because nothing screams “fighting the power” like rooting for a premeditated hit labeled “precise” in the perp’s own notebook. One supporter, decked out in a Luigi hat, gushed to cameras: “Whomever did it, is a hero.” Hero? Honey, heroes fix healthcare with ballots or boycotts, not 3D-printed ghost guns.
But sure, keep “stanning” the guy whose manifesto called Thompson a “greedy bastard that had it coming.” Real intellectual heavyweights. To be clear, whether they realize it or not, the male fans of Luigi are simmering in their “I’m bisexual” stage, and the women, well, who cares? They’re probably just fat or homely and, of course, they hate their fathers. It’s like a GIVEN in geometry.
But…but…but…what about the brutality of it?
Let’s not sugarcoat: these aren’t just misguided do-gooders; they’re murder fetishists with a victim-blaming kink. Brian Thompson wasn’t some cartoon villain twirling a mustache in a boardroom—he was a father, a husband, a guy walking to a meeting when two shots to the back turned his morning commute into a crime scene.
And what’s with this new shell case etching thing?
Mangione didn’t “draw attention” to insurance woes; he executed a man in broad daylight, complete with shell casings etched “DENY,” “DELAY,” and “DEPOSE,” like a twisted Mad Libs game.
Yet, here are the courthouse cheerleaders, treating it like a rom-com climax.
“Ghoulish,” one X post nailed it, capturing the crowd’s glee as they erupted over the dropped charges. They’re not cheering justice; they’re toasting vigilante porn, the kind where offing a suit feels like sticking it to The Man.
Newsflash, dipshits: The Man doesn’t care about your chants. He cashes checks from the very system you’re pretending to dismantle while you virtue-signal from a Starbucks line.
What’s wrong with them, dearest? Everything, darling. (Gee, that sounds a lot like the “warm and touching” love messaging between Charlie Kirk’s killer and his tran-something paramour.
Anyway, it’s the terminal stage of late-stage capitalism brain-rot mixed with social media solipsism.
These oddballs aren’t revolutionaries; they’re rejects—lonely, loud, and latching onto a killer because real activism requires showing up for the living, not lionizing the dead. They camp in tents for a hearing but ghost therapy sessions for their mommy issues. They wear green overalls to “own the insurers” but can’t be bothered to volunteer at a free clinic. And deep down? It’s envy.
Envy? Of course!
Mangione, the valedictorian robotics nerd, turned his impotent rage into infamy. They wish they had the balls—or the backpack full of ammo—to make a splash, but they settle instead for furry costumes and TikTok dances outside a courthouse instead.
Merciless? You bet. These Luigi lovers aren’t allies in the fight for better healthcare; they’re accelerant on a dumpster fire, turning a widow’s grief into their group chat fodder. Thompson’s family doesn’t need your pity-party props or your “broken system” bumper stickers—they need you to shut the hell up and vote, not venerate their husband’s killer like a twisted Che Guevara.
The judge called Mangione’s act a “premeditated and calculated execution,” but spared the terror label because it wasn’t about scaring the public—it was personal payback porn. Fair enough. But you fan club weirdos? You’re the real terror: a mob of moral midgets cheering from the sidelines, proving that in 2025, the line between protest and pathology is more coarse than your polyester “Free Luigi” tees.
So here’s to you, courthouse cosplayers: May your next rally be as empty as your ethics, and may karma drop a denial letter on your own E.R. visit. Because when the judge finally slams the gavel on second-degree murder—25-to-life, baby—you’ll scatter like roaches, back to your basements, dreaming of the next anti-hero to stan. Pathetic. Hilarious. And utterly, brutally broken.
When I think of all the babies who were aborted while these loathsome cell-clumps walk the earth. SMH.
