Post by th on Oct 18, 2022 14:51:26 GMT -5
There are two kinds of people in the world. One knows extreme wealth is immoral, no matter how it is “earned.” Whether or not the guy behind the money had an idea that caught like wildfire or they got their seed money from mommy and daddy and just went wild, they do not make that wealth off anything but the backs of their abused labor. The other thinks they’re a temporarily embarrassed billionaire and fights more vocally for the rich assholes that have them under a jackboot than they do their fellow man. I am not one of the latter people. I am The Anglo Luchador, and I am a man of the people. That’s why this bit of promotional material goes out to Elon Musk.
Elon, I don’t want to fight you because you’re a fragile, self-obsessed memelord who thinks he can post his way out of trying to incite coups or cozying up to fascist dictators. I don’t want to fight you because you named your kid after a line of code from one of your exploded spacecraft and was such a shitty husband to Grimes that she pretended to care about communism after she ditched your lanky ass. I don’t even want to fight you because your stupid face ruined Wario for me for a good three months after you went on Saturday Night Live to try and pull the wool over the libs’ eyes.
I want to fight you because you represent everything wrong with the world today.
Rarely in the course of human history does someone fail upward so fast and far that they could mistakenly think the theory of gravity is wrong. I guess it’s almost admirable how much of a scam you’ve run, baldy. Maybe the only thing you’ve ever done that’s worth a damn is buying follicle transplants to hide the ugly male pattern baldness you had going in the early part of the millennium, but as with everything you’ve ever touched, aesthetics and optics are the only thing you succeed at. Everything else is an abject failure that keeps rewarding you because you’re a good liar.
Let’s talk about PayPal first. You merged your shitty company with them and the first thing that happened was a massive security breach. Instead of holding you liable, what did your tech bro friends do? They bought you out. Money that should have gone to the people who tried to use your shit-ass service for important things essential to their everyday lives went in your pocket. Then, there’s Tesla. Oh yeah, you’re a real sweetheart, selling electric cars to “help the environment.”
Yes, I’m making the jerk-off motion with my right hand, overhand, like a gentleman for those who need play-by-play.
Your products are so shitty that I’m convinced you bought Tesla as a government op to discredit electric cars and keep us in gas-guzzling combustion engines until we run out of oil. I mean, cars that spontaneously combust? “Self-driving” features that will automatically turn you into oncoming traffic, pedestrians, or buildings? Unintended racecar acceleration? Hell, even when you do realize something is grossly wrong with your shit-ass ugly cars, you make owners sign NDAs when they bring them into the shop to have workers that you work overtime to prevent from unionizing fix. I think the only work you’ve ever done in your pathetic life has been preventing organization in the workplace.
I could mention gaming cryptocurrency so you could get rich off credulous rubes while keeping servers that consume enough electricity in a day to power Liechtenstein for a year pumping out carbon to fuck the environment. I could mention that you want to colonize Mars while failing to have a Space-X launch that didn’t end in a Hindenburg-level explosion before liftoff. I could even hold up that picture of you and Ghislaine Maxwell while singing Nickelback, but I wouldn’t do that. Not because it’d be uncouth to keep bringing up the fact that you have been photographed with the most loathsome child trafficker left alive, but because Nickelback gives me a lot of psychological damage. The other guy I considered cutting a promo on loved that band, and he was a rotten piece of human garbage. But I digress.
Literally everything I could mention about you shows the stunning lack of worth you bring to society while extracting all the worth from it undeservedly at the very least. You deserve to rot in prison for a trillion lifetimes for all the pain and suffering you’ve inflicted on the world, but the power structures we have don’t ever punish people like you, the disgusting bottomfeeders of this world that do nothing but leech value from people who earn it and use it to frivolously try to buy social media websites or commission designs for vehicles that make the Homer Mobile look like a fucking Lamborghini Countach.
In this world, the only justice is violence, and I want to be your judge, jury, and executioner. That’s why I want to challenge you to a fight in the middle of the ring, mano a mano. Go ahead and get whatever private jiu-jitsu instructor to get you to a sham brown belt. Head on down to Israel and learn krav maga from the source. Go try to bribe Joe Bergman at The Barn to take you in for all I care. You can learn whatever fighting style you want, become proficient in it even. You still won’t have the gumption to take me out. Why?
I know people like you, Elon. You’re a whiny crybaby whose first venture into being a so-called capitalist ubermensch was taking seed money from your racist father, extracted from the blood, sweat, and tears of Black emerald mine workers, and parlaying it into buyouts based on lies and cronyism. You have never worked a day in your life, and it has made you softer than a down blanket; you know, the kind you retreat to after someone calls you a jitbag on Twitter and your reply doesn’t get a hundred-thousand likes within 15 minutes. You can know enough technique to overwhelm me, but you aren’t going to have the drive in you to make sure you’re quick enough on the draw. You might hone your agility, but the thing about your type is no matter how catlike your reflexes get, you’ll never, ever be quick enough to take me. You might end up being quick, but Elon? I’m fucking sudden.
Your legion of reply guys and sycophants won’t help you. Your money will lay inert in your offshore bank accounts, unable to grab your hand as I stretch you into shapes the human body was never meant to resemble. When I get a hold of you, the only thing that will determine the length of the match will be my will to extend it. If I want to end it in 30 seconds, you will tap out furiously. If I want to punish you for an hour? You will long for death by the 15 minute mark and then despair when you realize I am keeping you alive just to torture you. Sure, it may not change the fact that you’re still the richest man in the world and that I’m just some shitbag luchador still wrestling at age 40 instead of resting on laurels.
But for a moment, I will have satisfaction of making you wince. Every single person in the world that you have fucked over, either through a bad business deal, a tanked crypto, an expensive car that caught on fire, a loss of a job out of retaliation for unionization, will have that satisfaction too. That is something that all of your riches won’t be able to buy from us.
Elon, I don’t want to fight you because you’re a fragile, self-obsessed memelord who thinks he can post his way out of trying to incite coups or cozying up to fascist dictators. I don’t want to fight you because you named your kid after a line of code from one of your exploded spacecraft and was such a shitty husband to Grimes that she pretended to care about communism after she ditched your lanky ass. I don’t even want to fight you because your stupid face ruined Wario for me for a good three months after you went on Saturday Night Live to try and pull the wool over the libs’ eyes.
I want to fight you because you represent everything wrong with the world today.
Rarely in the course of human history does someone fail upward so fast and far that they could mistakenly think the theory of gravity is wrong. I guess it’s almost admirable how much of a scam you’ve run, baldy. Maybe the only thing you’ve ever done that’s worth a damn is buying follicle transplants to hide the ugly male pattern baldness you had going in the early part of the millennium, but as with everything you’ve ever touched, aesthetics and optics are the only thing you succeed at. Everything else is an abject failure that keeps rewarding you because you’re a good liar.
Let’s talk about PayPal first. You merged your shitty company with them and the first thing that happened was a massive security breach. Instead of holding you liable, what did your tech bro friends do? They bought you out. Money that should have gone to the people who tried to use your shit-ass service for important things essential to their everyday lives went in your pocket. Then, there’s Tesla. Oh yeah, you’re a real sweetheart, selling electric cars to “help the environment.”
Yes, I’m making the jerk-off motion with my right hand, overhand, like a gentleman for those who need play-by-play.
Your products are so shitty that I’m convinced you bought Tesla as a government op to discredit electric cars and keep us in gas-guzzling combustion engines until we run out of oil. I mean, cars that spontaneously combust? “Self-driving” features that will automatically turn you into oncoming traffic, pedestrians, or buildings? Unintended racecar acceleration? Hell, even when you do realize something is grossly wrong with your shit-ass ugly cars, you make owners sign NDAs when they bring them into the shop to have workers that you work overtime to prevent from unionizing fix. I think the only work you’ve ever done in your pathetic life has been preventing organization in the workplace.
I could mention gaming cryptocurrency so you could get rich off credulous rubes while keeping servers that consume enough electricity in a day to power Liechtenstein for a year pumping out carbon to fuck the environment. I could mention that you want to colonize Mars while failing to have a Space-X launch that didn’t end in a Hindenburg-level explosion before liftoff. I could even hold up that picture of you and Ghislaine Maxwell while singing Nickelback, but I wouldn’t do that. Not because it’d be uncouth to keep bringing up the fact that you have been photographed with the most loathsome child trafficker left alive, but because Nickelback gives me a lot of psychological damage. The other guy I considered cutting a promo on loved that band, and he was a rotten piece of human garbage. But I digress.
Literally everything I could mention about you shows the stunning lack of worth you bring to society while extracting all the worth from it undeservedly at the very least. You deserve to rot in prison for a trillion lifetimes for all the pain and suffering you’ve inflicted on the world, but the power structures we have don’t ever punish people like you, the disgusting bottomfeeders of this world that do nothing but leech value from people who earn it and use it to frivolously try to buy social media websites or commission designs for vehicles that make the Homer Mobile look like a fucking Lamborghini Countach.
In this world, the only justice is violence, and I want to be your judge, jury, and executioner. That’s why I want to challenge you to a fight in the middle of the ring, mano a mano. Go ahead and get whatever private jiu-jitsu instructor to get you to a sham brown belt. Head on down to Israel and learn krav maga from the source. Go try to bribe Joe Bergman at The Barn to take you in for all I care. You can learn whatever fighting style you want, become proficient in it even. You still won’t have the gumption to take me out. Why?
I know people like you, Elon. You’re a whiny crybaby whose first venture into being a so-called capitalist ubermensch was taking seed money from your racist father, extracted from the blood, sweat, and tears of Black emerald mine workers, and parlaying it into buyouts based on lies and cronyism. You have never worked a day in your life, and it has made you softer than a down blanket; you know, the kind you retreat to after someone calls you a jitbag on Twitter and your reply doesn’t get a hundred-thousand likes within 15 minutes. You can know enough technique to overwhelm me, but you aren’t going to have the drive in you to make sure you’re quick enough on the draw. You might hone your agility, but the thing about your type is no matter how catlike your reflexes get, you’ll never, ever be quick enough to take me. You might end up being quick, but Elon? I’m fucking sudden.
Your legion of reply guys and sycophants won’t help you. Your money will lay inert in your offshore bank accounts, unable to grab your hand as I stretch you into shapes the human body was never meant to resemble. When I get a hold of you, the only thing that will determine the length of the match will be my will to extend it. If I want to end it in 30 seconds, you will tap out furiously. If I want to punish you for an hour? You will long for death by the 15 minute mark and then despair when you realize I am keeping you alive just to torture you. Sure, it may not change the fact that you’re still the richest man in the world and that I’m just some shitbag luchador still wrestling at age 40 instead of resting on laurels.
But for a moment, I will have satisfaction of making you wince. Every single person in the world that you have fucked over, either through a bad business deal, a tanked crypto, an expensive car that caught on fire, a loss of a job out of retaliation for unionization, will have that satisfaction too. That is something that all of your riches won’t be able to buy from us.