[I wrote this article's earliest version way back in 2023, and boy oh boy it shows!]
My off$pring is a Tate supporter. What do?
Good gumdrops. Isn't he that gigawanker who combines (1) screeching about the amazingness of his latest Bugatti Veyron/Chiron/Myrmidon/whatever, with (2) screeching about how all masculinity is War; and Dominance; and Kicking the Shit out of your local social hierarchy; and Strutting triumphant and resplendent atop its Shit-Kicked rubble?
That tera-penis?
Okay then. Why not combine both? Let us inoculate our Mr. Tate with both his wet-dream-fodder-s, but in a fashion so abrasive, so exasperating, so diabolical, that it'll render him unable to trouble a single off$pring ever again.
Bit of a sojourn ahead, so pour yourself a sherry first. I promise you it'll be worth your while.
All lovely and sherry'd, hawt stuff? Awesomesauce. Then let's get cracking, you crazy renegade.
First: you shall need to approach a stupendously snooty and upmarket vehicle 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, ever 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 unbelievable money troubles. We're talking dawn raids by debt collectors and Mafia shakedowns. This list ordering is crucial! Ordered thusly, Bugatti's client list becomes a glorious row of connable dominoes.
You shall topple these bastards Tateward. Or rather, topple their rides Tateward. Literally. You'll see what I mean soon enough.
But okay. How the hell might you acquire such a list?
Customer lists like this comprise the El Dorado of Bugatti salesprickship. Those at its pinnacle are our planet's Oligarchs: the disgustingly wealthy slimeballs who won't blink at gold-plating their butlers' butlers' butlers' poos, let alone Bugatti's automotive finest. Bugatti's feuding salescronies routinely slit each other's throats in their sleep for the right to court these assholes.
Those Undesirables, however, lurking at the list's rump? Oft they prove sullen braindead oafs who kid themselves formidable finance douchebags, but in practice remain about two seconds from suiciding from their Wall Street 190th-floor office windows. Usually it's because their sociopathic exertions at maintaining nine separate isolated nuclear families have once more collapsed: all nine ex-wives have (1) independently, unwittingly and simultaneously all ran off with the same hunky pool cleaner (often a younger and hotter version of Hubby, hellbent on poaching from the same pool of loaded socialite wives), and (2) all nine ex-wives have unknowingly made clashing divorce claims on Hubby's prized Bugatti. Hubby's financial stability is horrific shit and he knows it.
Undesirables like Hubby shall be dominoed putty in your dextrous Tatephobe hands.
Yoinking such a lucrative Undesirables client list is honestly easier than you might think. What Bugatti's saleswankers prize highest is not the list itself, but clear and established mooching-rights to the list's most prestigious members. Just crash a Bugatti Christmas office party at 3-4am. Fertile yoink-turf. Their coke has started wearing off. Their alcohol buzzes are remaining steady. But their aldehyde-fuelled Hangovers are now rearing their hideous heads. Ugh. It's hell, darling. Approach whichever salesasshole rocks the most glazed Look of existential weariness and pent-up frustration. Tell him you're a loathsome little undergrad intern, and ever so bullyable, Your Eminence. Please Sir May I Have Some More?, etc. Tell him that Bugatti's C-suite thought it'd be an absolute hoot for you to commence your Bugatti sales career cold-calling the Undesirables for a few aeons, or until your foetusesque chirpiness is pulverised for good. Sir's overlords have given Sir the Okay to cough up THE LIST minus its fabulous auramite-pooed Oligarchs. So could Sir pretty-please-with-fuckin'-sprinkles-on-top provide a copy?
Naturally the notion of crushing your juvie earnestness will perk him right up. Ha. Grab The List and skedaddle. You've got Work to do.
Phone its #1 Undesirable. Tell him you're the lawyer representing all nine of his ex-wives. Tell him that all nine have agreed to withdraw their threat of guillotining his penis into microfiche salami over a thousand judo-choppy years, if, IF, he'll let them merely borrow his Bugatti for an hour and return it intact. That's all.
He'll leap at this piddly little tinkle of hope. Great. Visit him and drive his Bugatti away yourself. Naturally he'll never see it again, but he won't know that until he sees tomorrow's news, ha ha ha.
Ascend The List's Undesirables, pulling the same trick as frequently as practicable. You'll amass a monstrous Bugatti fleet pronto.
Once, however, you graduate to The List's middle ranks, you'll start encountering nauseatingly decent folk. They're wealthily middle-class and lefty-liberal-ish and resistant to divorcey threats of penisey salami. Pity. You'll need to upgrade your tactics. Approach each, now posing as an official Bugatti rep. Already possessing hundreds of Bugatti vehicles should banish this second group's doubts re your Bugatti-rep authenticity, so you shouldn't have much trouble actually wangling their own rides from them. Announce that Bugatti is conducting a super-urgent Product Recall, and thank GOD you've managed to contact them in time. Because holy shit. Hadn't they heard? All Bugattis, ALL, have just become explodey death traps. Yes! Even cars sold decades ago. The whole lot have a nauseating manufacturing defect. A sickening defect. A defect uniquely susceptible to The List's middle-bits. If you so much as glance at a Bugatti racistly, it immediately explodes.
You may think, oh come ON, (1) how can one possibly glance "racistly," and (2) how would the car know? Great googly moogly you sweet summer child. You underestimate the propensity of upper-middle-class lefty-liberal types to undergo complete psychological collapse at the merest hint of being thought Racist. Go on. Give it a whirl. Invite your latest Mid-List Marks to your in-progress Bugatti ocean; squangle*-up some hi-lar-ious comedy blackface** with a cheeky smear of shoe polish; sneak a peek at just one vehicle; then detonate some pre-placed explosives inside it. Boom. I guarantee all your Mid-List Marks will simultaneously poo themselves in terror, then immediately surrender their Bugattis. Dude! Result! You're making wicked progress. You're a bit of all right, you know that?
But do move fast. For no doubt a few will contact Bugatti-The-Company, innocently enquiring after the company's car fleet de-racist-ification progress. Shit will thus get REAL pronto. Acquire as many Bugattis as possible before the global man-hunt against you properly kicks off.
Though okay, you're doing great! You've now accumulated over twenty thousand pricey Bugatti supercars in mere days. Now, physically locate Andrew Tate (remember him?) in his [2023] Romanian abode [or wherever he's now serving his lifetime jail sentence, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha]. You'd best hurry, as no doubt (1) considerable numbers of law enforcement goons, (2) 20,000 enraged Bugatti owners, and (3) Bugatti itself are now scouring the globe for you, baying for your blood. But this next action should restore your reputation and make you their golden child forever: physically drop every single vehicle upon Tate from a tremendous height.
Like, you kidding me? Tate is scum. Everyone knows that. You think Bugatti-the-company wouldn't pass up the opportunity to be seen worldwide as The Org That Ended Tate? Same with the Mid-List Marks. Come on. Bugatti will happily manufacture even more vehicles for Tate-Squish-Purposes. The Undesirables will be in raptures at you knocking off a rival. And levitating 20,000 supercars shouldn't be that tricky. Just crash a hot-air balloon enthusiast Open Day or something. Balloonists are a jovial bunch and natural Tatephobes. They'll stratosphere-ise you Bugatti-ly in a heartbeat.
So go nuts. Rain 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 portraying all that Rods From God US Military bullshit as the cutesy tummy-tickling of prematurely-birthed yowly kittehs. We're talking slamming tremendous automotive ziggurats against Tate's perineum like you're both co-starring in Blues Brothers III.
For if Tate is the true-blue Alpha Male*** he's spent years claiming he is, then 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 pre-bombard 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. RIP suckah.
And finally, should you orchestrate your PR dextrously enough, you'll also communicate to good folk worldwide of a GAP in your Bugatti-owner avalanche. The Saudi Billionaires! The Oligarchs! Their cars sure ain't joining in your Tate-squishing. I wonder why?
Good friggin' riddance. Twist your PR knife by offering to gold-plate their poos.
Your off$pring will never dare be seen supporting Andrew Tate ever again. Problem solved π
...
Actually come to think of it, I see your question's phrasing is "Tate supporter." I'd just kind of assumed you'd meant Andrew Tate. Well shit. Maybe your son's a fan of Catherine Tate, the UK comedienne. Totally reasonable! Her Offensive Translator sketch is one of the silliest things I've ever watched. Please please PLEASE don't drop 20,000 Bugattis on her. Though she might actually find it hilarious if you gold-plated her poos. There's only one way to find out.
~~~
* Huh! "squangle" seemed like the kind of wibbly-wobbly pseudoword bullshit that just kind of FIT there. But turns out a "squangle" is actually a Thing! Well spin my nipple-nuts and send me to Alaska.
** Though, ha, here's me broadcasting my own un-con-scionable racial prejudices. Naturally blackface is only horrid if you're a honky. Or Beyonce. Perhaps you're Nigerian or Somali and/or from a similarly literally-black bit of the world? You may need to up the ante. Perhaps accuse your Bugattis themselves of being super-DUPER-honkys. Honkies? What's the plural of "honky"? Believe it or not, I've never met more than one at a time.
*** I, however, am a Pre-Alpha Male. In the software sense. I'm full of bugs and I crash constantly.