In a scene to rival the most melodramatic soap opera, Elon Musk transformed the Oval Office into his personal therapy chamber, with sobs, sniffles and a desperate plea for validation from President Trump. It's almost as pathetic as it is poetic: the self-proclaimed genius entrepreneur, who’s treated his Tesla customers as Pete Hegseth does an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s; a weeping, wailing, whimpering meat-sack of waterworks bawling to the very embodiment of weaponized assholery.
This emotional unburdening comes on the heels of Tesla's stock taking a nosedive, much like Musk's reputation for honesty, vision, leadership and adulthood. Perhaps the pressures of juggling 14 CEO jobs he had no business taking on simultaneously, while fathering kids at a Genghis-Khan-like pace, finally punctured the bubble of invincibility he so carefully curated.
Whatever it is, it is so very well deserved. Elon Musk didn't just fly to close to the sun--he spit at it, kicked it, called it a loser and a traitor, and was shocked when the sun responded by burning his ass.
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