Squealing for Blood: Garron Noone and the Lynch Mob of Mindless Bastards

“Thinking is difficult, therefore let the herd pronounce judgment!”
-Carl Jung

The vultures came down at dawn. Hissing, screeching, swollen on the blood of a thousand hollow arguments and false awakenings. And in the middle of the digital desert, there stood poor Garron Noone—half-musician, half-mystic, full-blown cultural smartass—trying to speak sense into a crowd that had already chewed through its own tongue.

It wasn’t even a hot take. Just a lukewarm, centrist thought about immigration—measured, humane, half-baked even, but goddamn if it wasn’t honest. And for that, they crucified him on the altar of shrieking algorithmic rage.

There are no ideas anymore. Only reactions. Pavlovian hell-dogs, barking and snarling at any pixel that smells like dissent. Try dropping a nuanced opinion on the web today—it’s like tossing a raw steak into a cage full of tweaked-out raccoons. Noone, the warm, playful and stupidly-likable Irish social media star, didn’t attack anyone. He didn’t foam at the mouth or slap anyone with the stick of ideology. He just said something real. And the response? A shrieking, blue-lit orgy of half-literate madness from the hive-minded drool brigade.

Cancel him! Strip his bones! Feed him to the hashtag gods!

Jesus tapdancing Christ.

I’ve seen this movie before. I’ve written album reviews and gotten death threats from grown men who think the third Winger record is a sacred text. I’ve ranked slide guitarists and one deranged lunatic hunted me down and sent me a scathing email to blast me for being a know-nothing asshole. The rage isn’t new—but the emptiness behind it is. There’s no belief anymore. No soul. Just posturing. All identity, no spine. The entire online ecosystem is one vast, hissing ego-terrarium where people build their personalities out of vibes and trauma threads and then lose their minds when reality doesn’t match the script.

Noone was a casualty of that. Of stepping out of line. Of daring to think in a way that wasn’t entirely pre-approved by the dopamine-sucking outrage machine.

And you could feel it happening in real time. The feeding frenzy. Like watching a dolphin get shredded by sharks on a GoPro livestream. The crowd didn’t just want to disagree—they wanted to erase him. Scrub him off the face of the earth for not playing his designated role in the TikTok pantomime.

He deleted his account. Vanished. Pulled the ripcord. Part of me respects the hell out of that—stepping away from the endless digital vomitorium. But part of me wanted to see him dig in, eyes wide, middle fingers raised, yelling, “IS THIS WHAT YOU THINK PROGRESS LOOKS LIKE?”

Because let’s be clear here: this is not progress. This is ideological cannibalism. It’s the death of discourse, the murder of grey areas, the burning of bridges before they’re even built. And the irony? The sick, bitter punchline? Garron Noone was one of the good guys. Not some rabid demagogue or crypto-fascist grifter. Just a thoughtful dude with a warped sense of humor and enough brain cells to rub together and spark a fucking idea.

And they dragged him just the same.

So here we are. Choking on our own enlightenment. Praying to a cracked mirror, swearing vengeance on anyone who dares to speak like a human being. We don’t need more opinions. We need more spine. More people willing to stand in the flames and shout, “I will not be homogenized!”

Noone tried. And the mob came.

But maybe—just maybe—that's where the real story begins.