Andrew Tate and Jake Paul are different flavors of the same cultural problem:

They don’t sell growth. They sell resentment. They don’t offer wisdom. They don’t encourage accountability.

Every year, the universe gives us one tiny, perfect gift: watching men who built empires on ego and entitlement, finally get served- Thank you Universe you’re the GOAT! That’s how you know it’s Christmas.

Andrew Tate and Jake Paul. Chips on their shoulders? Monumental. Delusions? Luxuriously Filthy.

Andrew Tate: Aggression was his main Course.

Tate screamed into every camera he could find, sold aggression like it was wisdom, His chip? Years of imagined slights by women he could never measure up to. -Yikes. He’s loud wrapped in bravado. The self-importance, my GOD, it was as thick as the congealed thanksgiving gravy you forgot in the back of the fridge last year. He taught his followers: yell louder it will prove you’re right.

But my friend the UNIVERSE got tired of flavorless ego. Remember Tate’s legal problems and platform bans. Watching him crumble was like seeing someone fight their way out of a full diaper. Horrifying, delicious, and morally satisfying-utterly orgasmic!

Jake Paul: Sticky, and Rotten

Jake grew up in chaos, raised on attention and outrage. Pranks, shouting and just being a bad person.

He failed up his entire life, building an identity as a culture vulture, scavenging legitimacy wherever he could find it- Pick me, pick me, pretty please!!!

Then came boxing: the big show, and hype, all stacked on a foundation of parental neglect. Where the fuck are your mom and dad, bro? Even his location is part of the facade. Puerto Rico., tax breaks, legal loopholes, living off a community he doesn’t give a fuck about or gives back to. Flexing wealth, calling it genius, entitlement with palm trees swaying in the wind.

The universe finally said: Enough bitch!

Enter Anthony Joshua a quiet, actual professional. No antics. No clown energy. Just presence. A real Alpha. In one night, Joshua turned Jake into the punchline of his own long running joke, exposing the entire persona as stupid audacity. The hype collapsed, the unraveling was, jaw-ing- pun intended. Then, because irony has a sense of humor, Chase DeMoor wandered in from stage left. A hilariously bad performance. Pure chaos, no plan, just windmilling desperation. The universe took one look and said, fine, this asshole can go down too..

Fuck it, close your eyes and swing Chase!!

Does Tate go down? Nah, but he looks like an off script Looney Tunes episode, You know which one.

Carefully curated opponents. Manufactured invincibility. Years of cosplay masculinity all thrown into the oven.

Outcome: Undercooked.

This fight was deliberately boring. We know Joshua should’ve ended it at round one; for all our sakes baby.

The Karmic Feast

For Paul: Netflix packaged up this gourmet disaster to keep you busy until Thursday’s Stranger Things release. I’d rather see Nancy “Walk’em Down” Wheeler give both of them a masterclass in the strength of a woman than watch another minute of these misogynistic goof balls flailing around— Yuck

The Very Tiny Healing

Universe is the chef- Un plat parfaitement exécuté, Muah!! Public shaming at its finest. Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear boxing gloves and carve the chips off the shoulders of men too small to carry them. So for one grotesque, perfectly seasoned moment, the world is finally, slightly healing. there’s still the matter of a bloated rotting orange the universe is working on. —I trust you Universe!

The Ending We Deserved

So, here’s your Christmas present. With a stocking full of karmic consequences. The annihilation of two self-important assholes, leaving the sport cleaner, quieter, and infinitely less disgusting.

Merry Christmas, you filthy animals!