I’ve talked about this before when the whole Luigi Mangione situation first blew up, but now that these arson attacks are happening—and people are still making comparisons—I’m gonna say this again, even more directly:
People like him, and anyone being put in the same category—whether it’s arsonists or so-called “copycats”—are not your allies.
They are not pro-worker.
They are not champions of the people.
They are not part of some meaningful movement.
And honestly, we need to stop pretending they are.
Because let me ask a very simple question: where the hell were these people before all of this?
If they were so deeply committed to fighting capitalism, to standing up for workers, to challenging injustice—where were they during all the years people have been organizing, protesting, unionizing, speaking out, and doing the actual hard work?
Why did we only just hear about them when they pulled off some extreme, headline-grabbing act?
And why did they do it in the most public, attention-commanding way possible?
I’ll tell you why.
Because this isn’t about workers. It’s not about justice. It’s not about meaningful change.
It’s about attention.
It’s about clout.
It’s about making a name for themselves in the loudest, most shocking way possible.
That’s what this is.
And yeah, I know that’s harsh. But look at the pattern. Real movements are built over time. They involve communities, organizing, risk, sacrifice, and consistency. They’re not built overnight through one explosive act that suddenly puts someone in the spotlight.
That kind of behavior? That’s opportunism.
It’s someone inserting themselves into a larger conversation—not to help, but to be seen.
And there’s also something else that needs to be said, even if it makes people uncomfortable: there’s a level of privilege baked into this.
Because it takes a certain kind of mindset—an entitled one—to think you can just take matters into your own hands like that. To think you can commit violent or dangerous acts, disrupt lives, risk harm, and either not care about the consequences or assume you’ll be shielded by a wave of online support.
That’s not revolutionary thinking.
That’s reckless, self-centered thinking.
And when people start cheering it on, it only reinforces that mindset. It tells others, “Hey, if you do something extreme enough, you’ll get attention, you’ll get praise, you’ll get a following.”
That’s a dangerous incentive structure to create.
Now let’s talk about something that’s honestly just absurd to me—the comparisons to Luigi from the Mario games.
What the hell are we doing here?
Luigi—the actual character—is a hero. He saves people. He helps others. He’s part of stories about rescuing, protecting, and doing the right thing even when he’s scared.
And people are taking that name and slapping it onto someone who committed violence, onto arsonists who are literally putting lives at risk, onto copycats who think causing harm is some kind of statement?
That comparison isn’t just wrong—it’s backwards.
It flips the entire meaning on its head.
You’re taking a symbol of helping people and attaching it to actions that endanger people.
That’s not clever. That’s not symbolic. That’s just messed up.
I want to expand on something that honestly keeps bothering me the more I see it pop up—the comparison between Luigi from the Mario games and Luigi Mangione. Because the more I think about it, the more ridiculous—no, the more insulting—that comparison becomes.
Let’s actually talk about who Luigi is.
Not the meme version. Not the internet joke. The actual character.
Luigi is a plumber. A regular guy. A working-class dude from Brooklyn, alongside his brother Mario. They’re not kings. They’re not billionaires. They’re not elites. They’re not sitting on top of some power structure looking down at everyone else.
They’re workers.
They fix pipes. They do labor. They come from a grounded, everyday background. And somehow, despite that, they constantly find themselves thrown into situations that are way bigger than them—worlds filled with chaos, danger, magic, and existential threats. Whether it’s dealing with Bowser, ghosts, or entire collapsing kingdoms, they step up.
Not because they want attention.
Not because they’re chasing clout.
Not because they’re trying to make a name for themselves.
But because someone has to do it.
That’s what makes Luigi, specifically, so compelling. He’s not even the “main hero” most of the time. He’s the underdog. The one who’s scared, hesitant, unsure—but still shows up anyway. He pushes through fear. He acts when it matters. He helps people even when he doesn’t feel like the strongest or the bravest person in the room.
That’s a working-class hero.
That’s someone people can actually relate to.
He represents the idea that you don’t have to be powerful, wealthy, or important to make a difference. You just have to care enough to act—and to do so in a way that protects others.
Now compare that to what people are trying to equate him with.
You’ve got Luigi Mangione, whose name is now being thrown into the same breath, and even worse, people using the Luigi identity like it’s some kind of symbolic badge for acts of violence or destruction.
No.
That’s where the comparison completely falls apart.
Because Luigi—the actual character—is about saving lives.
The people being compared to him? They’re engaging in actions that risk lives.
That’s not a small difference. That’s the entire difference.
Luigi runs toward danger to protect others.
These people create danger that others have to escape from.
Luigi steps up to stop chaos.
These actions create chaos.
Luigi helps the vulnerable.
These acts put the vulnerable at risk.
So how in the hell are these things being treated as equivalent?
They’re not. At least not to me.
And I’ll say it plainly, just like you did:
Luigi from the Mario games is more of an underdog, more of a working-class hero, and more relatable than Luigi Mangione will ever be.
Because Luigi doesn’t act out of ego. He doesn’t act out of a need to be seen. He doesn’t put innocent people in harm’s way to make a statement. He shows up, does what needs to be done, and puts others first—even when he’s afraid.
That’s what makes him admirable.
And honestly, there’s something kind of backwards—almost twisted—about taking a character like that and using his name to justify or glorify actions that do the exact opposite of what he stands for.
It’s like people are trying to rewrite the meaning of the character to fit a narrative that just doesn’t hold up.
And maybe part of it is internet culture. Maybe it’s memes, irony, shock value. But at a certain point, it stops being funny or clever and just becomes nonsensical.
Because words—and symbols—mean things.
And when you take a symbol of someone who represents courage, humility, and helping others, and you attach it to acts of harm, destruction, or reckless endangerment, you’re not being insightful.
You’re just being wrong.
At the end of the day, Luigi is relatable because he’s ordinary. Because he’s grounded. Because he represents the idea that everyday people—working people—can rise to the occasion and do good in the world without losing their humanity.
That’s the key part: without losing their humanity.
And that’s exactly what gets lost when people start glorifying actions that put others at risk.
So no, these comparisons don’t work.
They’re not equal.
They’re not even close.
And the sooner people stop trying to force that connection, the better off the conversation will be.
At the end of the day, we need to stop romanticizing this kind of behavior. We need to stop pretending that every extreme act done “against the system” is somehow aligned with justice or the working class.
Because it’s not.
If someone’s actions are rooted in ego, attention-seeking, and disregard for the safety of others, then they’re not part of the solution.
They’re part of the problem.
And no amount of comparisons, memes, or ideological framing is going to change that.