Elon Musk has just filed a lawsuit against Twitter for taking advantage of him and seducing him into a financial relationship, all the while flipping him the bird.
“She has no shame, Your Honor,” says Elon, flashing a florid-faced grimace before Judge Jennifer James,
“I never meant to get this deep into the bird. I thought we were only having a fling, but she kept telling me in that sexy, chirpy voice of hers, ‘Oh, Elon, you’re so wonderful, so powerful, so funny, you can do anything. Let’s get our Tweet flag on and flit happily ever after.’
“So we did. She promised me the moon. Now I’m wing deep in guano, with an albatross around my neck, feeling as if I’m infected with avian flu, and it’s all her fault. Birdies like that should not be allowed to fly over this country. She tweeted that I could be KING, KING, I tell you—mightier than The Donald, mightier than DeSatan. All I had to do was to feather her nest in the style to which she wished to be accustomed—no more RULES. She’s one mean bird, I tell ya, leading me astray with all her libertarian talk: ‘You can do anything with me, the wilder the better. You can just sow your chaotic oats and watch people flock to us. We will be rich beyond even your wildest dreams.’
“But she lied. She lied, I tell you. Imagine—lying to me, the Great Elon Musk, the one who owns all of space and the whole universe of electric cars!”
Judge James frowns and says, “But you realize you’re suing yourself, don’t you, Mr. Musk?”
“I don’t care. That self is bad, bad, bad, and I want her destroyed. I want to fly free of her. Please please please loosen her talons. I shouldn’t have to pay her one more worm, I shouldn’t. Why, look at all the good I’ve done for the planet with my cars.”
“Except for all the ones that erupted into fire and killed people,” snorts the Judge, leaning over her desk.
Elon, his jaw working as he paces around the courtroom hollering, “You think I had something to do with that? That was their fault, really, they didn’t read the instructions, which the Telsa manual clearly spells out: ‘DO NOT ALLOW THE CAR TO CATCH ON FIRE AND KILL YOU AND YOUR FAMILY, OR ANYONE WHO GETS IN YOUR WAY.’ As I said, not my fault, your honor, not my fault.”
“You know, Mr. Musk, not even your kids like you. How do you square that lithium battery?”
“Oh,” he says and chuckles. “They’re pranksters just like their old man. I don’t really like children anyway, just wanted to share my genes with the world—you know, to have little Musks continue on with my crazy, chaotic grandstanding. People love me, can you blame them?”
“No one loves you so much now, though, do they Mr. Musk? Your fling with Ms. Tweetie Sweetie has cost you. Your Tesla sales have tanked, the bird’s ad revenue has dropped—companies are giving your Tweetie Sweetie the one-finger salute, and now you stand before this Judge and ask her to bail you out?”
“Yes, your Honor, I knew you would see it my way. Please, please, just tweet me out of this Hellscape!”
“Motion denied,” chirps the Judge, banging down hard with her gavel.
Rosie Sorenson is a humor writer in the San Francisco Bay Area. You can contact her at: RosieSorenson29@yahoo.com
From The Progressive Populist, December 15, 2022
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