The death of a Brian Thompson has unleashed a reaction so unrestrained it could make a Roman Colosseum crowd seem tame. Social media erupted in what can only be described as digital dancing on the grave, with memes, jokes, and thinly veiled jeers flowing like cheap prosecco at an office party. It wasn’t a quiet, reflective moment of mourning—it was a gleeful torching of a man’s legacy. And if that sounds harsh, well, that’s the point: Western society has perfected the art of kicking the powerful when they’re down, even as the broader system they represent marches on, unscathed and unbothered.

At the centre of this macabre celebration is the fact that this executive wasn’t just anyone; he was a symbol, a human lightning rod for decades of public anger at the healthcare industry. To many, he embodied everything wrong with the system: the soaring costs, the Byzantine billing, the endless denials of coverage. He might as well have been twirling a moustache atop a mountain of unpaid medical bills. So, when he died, it wasn’t just a man who passed—it was, to some, as if the Grim Reaper had done what regulators, courts, and the occasional public inquiry could not.

But let’s not fool ourselves into thinking this is just about one person. Western society has developed a troubling habit of channelling systemic frustrations into the downfall of individuals. It’s a kind of blood sport, where the public gets its kicks from seeing a “villain” toppled, even if the villain’s departure does absolutely nothing to fix the underlying problems. In this case, the executive is gone, but the healthcare industry is still very much alive—richer, more complicated, and less accountable than ever. If we’re honest, that industry probably poured itself a scotch, said, “Tough break, old boy,” and got back to business as usual.

What’s truly remarkable, though, is the sheer glee in these reactions. Empathy, once a vaguely desirable trait, has been replaced by a kind of moral scoreboard where death is just another tally mark on the side of justice. There was no room for nuance, no pause to say, “Hang on, was he truly responsible for all that, or are we projecting a bit?” Instead, the public reaction was more like a pub crowd cheering a particularly grim dart throw. It was quick, ruthless, and—if we’re being brutally honest—just a little grotesque.

Of course, it’s not entirely surprising. Trust in institutions, particularly in the United States, is circling the drain, and for good reason. The systems that are meant to hold power to account have become so toothless they’d struggle to chew through mashed potatoes. Regulators slap corporations with fines that are shrugged off as rounding errors. Politicians issue stern statements that amount to little more than “naughty, naughty.” Is it any wonder, then, that people seize these moments of individual downfall as a form of catharsis? It’s the closest thing they’re going to get to accountability, however hollow it may be.

Social media, naturally, has turned this into a performance art. Every tweet and meme is crafted not just to express an opinion but to gather likes and retweets—a virtual round of applause for one’s cleverness. It’s performative outrage, dressed up in the clothes of moral righteousness, and it spreads faster than a dodgy stomach bug at a festival. The executive’s death wasn’t just an event; it was content. And in the content economy, nothing generates engagement quite like a good old-fashioned public skewering.

But here’s the rub: none of this fixes anything. The healthcare system remains as labyrinthine and impenetrable as ever, and the people who suffer most are still the ones at the bottom. Celebrating Brian Thompson’s death might feel satisfying in the moment, like scratching an itch, but it does absolutely nothing to address the root causes of the anger. It’s all bark and no bite, a furious venting of frustration with no plan for what comes next.

What this episode reveals, more than anything, is a society that has grown so disillusioned it no longer cares about the cost of its own cynicism. Compassion is out; retribution is in. And while it’s tempting to join the chorus of jeers—it’s always fun to take a swipe at the powerful, isn’t it?—there’s something deeply unsettling about the way we’ve normalised this kind of response. It’s not justice. It’s not even progress. It’s just noise.

In the end, the death of this executive will change nothing. The outrage will fade, the memes will be replaced by the next scandal, and the system will roll on, impervious as ever. The only thing that might linger is the uncomfortable realisation that Western society, for all its moral grandstanding, seems increasingly content to settle for symbolic victories over substantive change. If that’s the best we can do, we’re not just stuck—we’re in reverse.