Dear Elon,
‘Slowing AI development for the good of mankind’ is the last straw on my twelve-year-old back. Had you been looking over the shoulders of Gutenburg and Edison, I’d be writing you on parchment with a stylus—in the dark.
Add that to your June brouhaha with Sam Altman over who owns OpenAI, and you’re having a bad summer. How can you claim ‘Unjust Enrichment’—while rattling the world’s largest piggy bank—then lose the case due to ‘Late Filing?’ I filed a paper late at STEM Elementary and lost twenty minutes of tetherball. You kissed off $150 billion—enough to turn Idaho into an AI data center.
Worse yet, these recent debacles are not one-offs. Last year, you managed to piss off the President, Cabinet, SEC, journalists, Tesla drivers, most of America, and all of Europe. Don’t forget the tiff with Don Lemon.
It’s time for new leadership of the Musk empire. Tiny leadership. But leadership.
I make this offer despite a D+ in pre-pre-algebra—all because Ms. Abacus posed a trick word problem. Two trains traveling in opposite directions don’t meet. The question is existential, not algebraic. When deceleration hits zero, Ms. Abacus, the trains explode.
As do many SpaceX rockets. But I can fix that. I solved Rubik’s cube in nine seconds. Just now. Five is doable—if I open my eyes and use both hands. But why bother? I’m trying to stay humble.
I even cracked the Fibbernaci Theorem. In a dream, no less. Then I woke up to pee and lost the solution forever. Honestly, the Nobel Prize people should meet me halfway.
Compare my record to what you bring to mankind’s table. You spent $44 billion to re-name Twitter after your toddler. Vain, don’t you think? That diaper flush is still economically in the toilet. Meanwhile, I turned a lemonade stand profitable on the third squeeze.
How about Doge? Was the ‘e’ a typo? You rifled through a $7 trillion government couch and couldn’t find pizza money for Big Balls. I cleaned Mom’s closet and found enough cash to fund a Domino’s stimulus package.
And now you delay Mars colonization. Rocket and distance challenges? Solved! I took third place in STEM’s water rocket contest. Second place, if you straighten the loopedy-loops on the way to the crash. The judges called my rocket ‘unsafe’ and ‘technically horizontal.’ Proof that innovation scares people.
This is why the mind-meld I propose is one of intellectual near-equals: you’ll get there, Mr. Musk. Please refer to me as Little Balls. For now. Mom is workshopping alternatives.
As due diligence, call Mom. She tells Babushka and Pop-pop I’m a boy genius. Better yet, her boyfriend calls me a snotty-nosed, arrogant little dweeb—exactly what they called Galileo. Pope Urban and boyfriend should stay in their lanes. The non-STEM ones.
Unlike you, with your rotating Avengers cast of wives, girlfriends and kids, I roll exclusive. My girlfriend is the seventeen-and-one-quarter-year-old hottie next door. Mom calls her babysitter. Babysitter drives me places—such as the orthodontist to tighten my braces. She calls me ‘cute’ and ‘adorable,’ basically flirting if you understand female psychology.
I am open to a strategic marriage alliance, though, with one of your daughters. History shows powerful bloodlines often mix. To advance civilization.
I’d prefer a wife named Y. Y and I shall name our child Fibbernaci. After all, I solved his theorem.
Please call. Otherwise, Fibbernaci will one day be streaming Wheels on the Bus straight to her molars through your creepy brain chips.
Remember, this post-Altman world is for your own good. And that of mankind.
To Mars and Beyond, I am truly
Little Balls
for now