Letters from Elon

I found a letter that Elon Musk wrote to his ex-boyfriend.

Donald, my Donald,

I’m sorry I called you a pedophile.

In my defense, you started it, when you let them take away my electric dumpster coupons. What the hell?

Did you really think that $200 million campaign gift had no strings?

The kind of strings we attached to JD Vance’s collar when it’s time for him to go in his dog crate at the foot of the bed. Who’s going to change his newspaper now that I’m gone?

They warned me about you. They said you always do this. That it was the ketamine talking when I told them you’d changed, you weren’t going to have a big public breakup like you did with Bannon? Remember Jeff Sessions, the little racist elf you told to stop baking cookies so he could be Attorney General? They said you’re never nice when the McDonalds Apple Pie finally gets cold.

After I bailed you out, after that failed publicity stunt in the field went wrong. Did you think there were enough voters wearing maxi pads on their ears to deliver you the election?

We raised a family together. What is Big Balls going to do at the State Department, knowing that Little Marco might ask him for five things he did that were productive that week? Children aren’t supposed to grow up with one parent.

I didn’t care that you were friends with Jeffrey Epstein. I wouldn’t have cared if you did some of those things on his private island that you told me were Prince Andrew.

Last night, I was up late, struggling to remember the names of my last six children, when I saw the news.

You sent the National Guard for me. Because you miss me. Even after you posted those mean things about me on your social media site, which you say is better than Twitter. You never called it X. You never respected my pronouns.

But you wanted to let me know you still care.

I still care too.

Not about Mike Johnson, who looks at adult websites with his kid. You and I don’t see our kids enough for that.

Someday, we’ll be together again in that Mar-a-Lago cottage that I used to rent during the transition. Our place. Where no one can hurt us. Except for Melania, when she leaves her side of the palace to visit the spa, you’re trying to get us some chocolate cake to eat under the covers before Hannity.

It makes me sad when I think about you squeezing into Pete Hegseth’s office makeup studio. I was supposed to be the only man you let use your favorite bronzer sponge.

We gave the gays a Pride Month to remember. They’re not even going to vote for you when you run for a third term. But I’ll still pay for your campaign, as long as you give me a pardon. Speaking of that, I’m really going to need that pardon.

Your First Buddy,

Co-President Musk