Excerpts from the Diary of Elon Musk
or: A Modest Proposal: 2017 Remix
[Editor’s note: We received the text of this document at a dead drop, which Shocker reporter and Indiana Pacers scholar Andrew Crowley was directed to by an anonymous tip. We present it here unaltered.]
Jan. 20, 2017
We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives.
Like the future, space can be a scary and unknowable thing. Its cold indifference can put a chill in the heart of the stoutest man, freeze even the warmest blood of the dedicated explorer. It is there that we must dare to dream of it, dare to dream against it, and dare to dream past it.
Space and the future are barriers, like mortality. They can be broken and made to bow to our will.
Man stopped gazing at the stars and started gazing at their phones. My question is a simple one: Why?
We must once again inspire the people to dream big! That is why I have decided to work with the Trump administration to bring my dreams to fruition. Donald Trump, if nothing else, is a man who knows the import of leaving a legacy — of writing your name in the heavens with the very stars themselves.
I hope that we can reignite the flames of American ingenuity and exploration by extending our reach to the stars above.
When Alexander saw the breadth of his empire, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer. We, however, can be a people with a place among the heavens, wearing starlight upon our brows! All we need is to risk it all — to gain whole other worlds.
My hope is that the Trump administration will partner with me to relaunch space exploration. Too long has the moon sat in the sky, unmolested by the boots of earthly men. We will choose to go back to the moon and to Mars, and beyond that.
I have begun planting suggestions so that Trump thinks it his idea. As an initial move, I have gifted his son Barron a model of my rockets. He seems more interested in model trains and elevators, though I can’t understand the latter, as he always gets stuck in them.
Jan. 27, 2017
I have made Barron Trump an honorary Musktronaut. He didn’t seem interested in that. He shuns human contact, though one would expect him to yearn for it — his mother raises him with the frigidity of the Eastern European climes she hails from. His father can’t be bothered with the child either. I find Barron strange. I shall have to look into his vaccination records and learn if he has consumed fluoridated water.
Also, I have made the acquaintance of Stephen K. Bannon, President Trump’s chief strategist. Something about him disquiets me. He smells of stale bottles of Schnapps and hot-dog water. I find it puzzling that a figure so grotesque in appearance should deem himself an example of superior white genes. He repulses me — and yet, I admire his persistence. He has found success from the fruit of failure, a trait common to all of us in Silicon Valley.
Feb. 3, 2017
I was foolish to ally myself with Bannon. He is a true monster, one that has begun to reveal its true colors and misshapen limbs. He was interested in my rocket program, but only as a weapon of death. I fear the instability and chaos he might sow. If we go to war with China, sourcing parts for my rockets and cars will prove more difficult. And nuclear winter would make launches virtually impossible.
Feb. 8, 2017
I have agreed to give Bannon a tour of my rocket facilities over the long President’s Day weekend. Though he has given up his Breitbart gig, he will go live with his repulsive successor Milo Yabbadabbadoopolis, as a show of force to indicate the industrial might that the U.S. still possesses.
Feb. 15, 2017
I find myself in dreadful anticipation of the visit of Bannon and his Grecian-English spiritual spawn. Barely able to keep my Soylent down. I question myself, wondering if what I plan to do is right. Yet ultimately I know it must be. Sometimes the market needs a guiding wheel; the invisible hand forming a fist and striking against those who threaten it.
Feb. 20, 2017
The visit was a disaster. Yabbadabbadoopolis did not appear. Instead, Bannon brought Barron along, a possibility for which I did not account.
Bannon and the ennui-laden blond child seemed disinterested in most of the tour. But that changed when they saw the rocket — steam and vapor wreathing it on the launchpad, the hull cool to the touch but humming in a manner suggestive of life.
They demanded to see the rocket’s interior. We are not really at the passenger stage of things yet, but the bare minimum of safety equipment was stored inside. One never knows when one might need to make a quick exit.
I was in the control room monitoring the situation, maintaining radio contact. We’re unsure of what went wrong, but somehow the rocket launched with Bannon and Barron inside. The Facebook Live feed cut out in the mesophere.
Everything went as expected — until re-entry. I’ve not been to a hog farm in person, but I’m told the screams of terror we heard bore an eerie similarity to the frightened noises of swine in a slaughterhouse.
The capsule burned up in the course of its return to the surface. There were no survivors, and nothing could be salvaged.