Musk’s Telsa Apocalypse: The room’s on fire and he’s still Tweeting

Listen up, you drooling pack of screen-addicted apes—here’s a dispatch from the edge of the abyss, where the air stinks of burning rubber and shattered dreams. Elon Musk, the self-crowned messiah of Mars, has somehow, SOME-FUCKING-HOW, not read the room yet. The world’s screaming in his face, and he’s too busy jerking off to his own reflection in a Tesla windshield to notice. How do I know? Because the evidence is piling up like corpses in a war zone, and it’s uglier than a politician’s soul.

Let’s start stateside, where the land of the free and the home of the trigger-happy has turned Tesla showrooms into shooting galleries. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Bullets ripping through glass, tires popping like cheap balloons, salesmen ducking behind overpriced electric dreams. These aren’t random tantrums—this is America saying, “We’ve had enough of your shit, Elon.” And it’s not just the gun nuts. Hop across the pond to France—those beautiful, riot-loving bastards—and they’ve upped the ante. A Tesla showroom? Torched. Cars? Torched. The whole damn stockpile? A glorious, raging bonfire, lighting up the night sky with a middle finger to Musk’s ego. The French don’t mess around when they’re pissed—they bring gasoline and a match.

All this not long after Tesla’s stock took a $100 billion nosedive—whoosh—straight into the crapper, all because Musk’s reputation is collapsing faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. A hundred billion bucks, gone, poof, evaporated, while he’s probably tweeting about Dogecoin or some half-baked cybertruck fantasy. Here’s the part that’ll make you choke on your cheap beer: Musk works at Tesla. He’s not the company. He’s not the chrome-plated god he thinks he is. He’s got 12.8% of the shares—12.8 measly percent!—while the other 87.2% are clutched in the sweaty paws of suits and shareholders who oughta know better.

So why the hell haven’t they done something? Why haven’t they locked him out, shut him down, chained him to a radiator in a basement somewhere with a gag made of his own stupid tweets? Because they’re spineless, that’s why. Gutless, greedy little weasels too busy counting their dividends to see the ship’s sinking. Tesla’s not Musk—it’s a company, a machine, a brand that could still mean something if they’d just cut the cancer out. But no, they’re letting him drag it down, letting his circus-act bullshit torch the reputation until there’s nothing left but ash and a faded logo.

Wake up, you 87.2%—this is your last goddamn chance. The room’s on fire, the mob’s got pitchforks and Molotovs, and Musk’s still dancing like Nero with a fiddle. Bolt the doors. Change the locks. Hire some muscle and throw him out on his ass before Tesla’s just a footnote in the history of hubris. Because if you don’t, the people will—and they won’t be gentle about it. I’ve seen the future, and it’s got a lot of broken glass and not a single charging station in sight.

This is Spider, signing off. Stay filthy, you beautiful bastards.