An Open Letter to Elon

The richest man in the world holds enormous power. Is he smart enough to wield it against Donald Trump?

Elon, my man, let’s chat.

Long-form, no bullet points, no safety rails.

You probably wish someone had sat you down in freshman year and hammered home Life Rule #1: Don’t sleep with crazy. Yet you threw the covers back and cozied up to Donald J. Trump as if the scorpion wouldn’t sting the frog halfway across the river. You figured the transaction was linear: You elected him, then you’d get the power, contracts, influence, all the tidy perks of being court technologist to a tin-pot monarch. What you forgot is the law of political thermodynamics: Everything Trump touches dies. Even for the guy who can park reusable rockets on a postage stamp, that law still holds.

Here’s the storm you’re sailing into. Yes, the Pentagon’s space program rides on the back of your Falcons, and Starship will someday heave half of Texas into orbit, but Trump, ever the vengeful landlord, doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter if ULA and Blue Origin literally don’t have the rockets for it, your contracts are toast. Facts don’t matter in MAGA-land; only fealty does. You’re discovering that in real time. Expect his FAA to start slowing down Starship permits. Missing Biden yet?

Then there’s your drive-by flirtation with a third political party. On paper, launching one is like climbing Everest in house slippers, but you’re the only mortal who can lubricate that death march with unlimited cash.

The mere threat of siphoning ten percent of the red-hat vote in Arizona or Georgia has LaCivita and Tony the Pollster sweating through the upholstery. (In fairness, that’s not uncommon for them.) And don’t underestimate the appeal: Your Silicon Valley bros — futurists high on transhumanism and effective altruism — would ditch the boat-parade crowd for a “Singularity Party” before you could tweet “Neuralink.” Imagine selling policy to Neuralink and Cybertruck fanboys instead of dudes with Bass Pro visors and erectile dysfunction.