[I wrote this article's first version way back in 2023, and boy oh boy, it shows!]
My off$pring is a Tate supporter. What do?
Good gumdrops. Isn't he that gigawanker who combines (1) screeching about the amazingness of his latest Bugatti Veyron/Chiron/Myrmidon/whatever, with (2) screeching about how all masculinity is War; and Dominance; and Kicking the Shit out of your local social hierarchy; and Strutting triumphant and resplendent atop its Shit-Kicked rubble?
That penis?
Okay then. Why not combine both? Let us inoculate our Mr. Tate with both in a fashion so viscous, so abrasive, so exasperating, that it'll render him unable to trouble any off$spring ever again.
Here's how. First, you shall need to approach a spectacularly upmarket supercar manufacturer like, say, Bugatti. From Bugatti you shall source and mooch a list of their entire customer base: every single buyer name, attached to every single car they've ever purchased from Bugatti since its founding in 1909. Thousands and thousands of them. And, and this is the Most Important bit: the list must be sorted in order of each customer's personal financial sturdiness: those at the bottom end of this list will be undergoing horrendous financial difficulties.
Why might you need this list? And how the hell might you acquire it?
I'll answer the second question first. Customer lists like this comprise the El Dorado of Bugatti salesmanship. Those at its pinnacle are the Oligarchs. The disgustingly wealthy douchebags who won't bat an eye at gold-plating their poo, let alone Bugatt's finest. Bugatti's sales teams routinely slit each other's throats in their sleep for the right to court these assholes. Those Undesirables at the list's rump are often finance douchebags about two seconds from suiciding from their Wall Street 50th-floor office window ledges, thanks to a rancid combo of (1) today's usual extra-hideous financial crash, but also (2) their sociopathic exertions at maintaining nine separate isolated nuclear families have collapsed after all nine now-ex-wives independently and simultaneously (2a) ran off with the same hunky pool cleaner, and (2b) all made unknowingly competing divorce-finance claims on Hubby's Bugatti. Their financial stability is total shit and they know it.
These Undesirables shall be putty in your dextrous Tatephobe hands.
Yoinking such a lucrative list is honestly easier than you might think. Just crash a Bugatti Christmas party
Second, simply purchase every single Bugatti vehicle ever manufactured. Considering Bugatti have been operating since 1909, that must be thousands minimum. Buy the lot. Or just steal them, if their existing owners decline business.
Second, physically locate Tate in his Romanian abode [or wherever he's now serving his lifetime jail term, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha]. And drop every single vehicle upon him, from a tremendous height.
Pile those fuckers down upon the fucker like you're an Old Testament deity. We're talking hypersonic bombardment. We're talking hideously expensive automotive hellfire. We're talking making that Rods From God US Military bullshit look like tummy-tickling of prematurely-birthed kittens. We're talking slamming tremendous automotive mounds against Tate's perineum like you're both co-starring in Blues Brothers III.
If Tate is the true-blue Alpha Male he's spent years claiming he is, he should be able to shrug off the whole lot without blinking, no problem. Right? In fact he should thirst for it. for what finer way to establish and reassert his alpha-ness anew? What finer way to prove his billions of Haters wrong wrong WRONG?
For he is surely an alpha-male-of-his word, right? RIGHT?
Don't waste your time anticipating any kind of straight answer from him. He'll just squirm and deflect like the spineless sissy he's always been. Just shout your heinous Bugatti bombardment across the Internet; get everyone's attention; then bombard away. Play your cards right and hopefully you'll also enrage all those asshole Saudi billionaires who'd paid Bugatti through the nose for literal gold-plated Bugatti Chirons. Good friggin' riddance.