If Elon Musk Doesn't Take A Dookie, No One Takes A Dookie! By Elon Musk.

Class War
If Elon Musk Doesn't Take A Dookie, No One Takes A Dookie! By Elon Musk.

Greetings, everyone! I’m happy to extend well wishes for the New Year to you. Currently, I’m in my private jet taking a sixteen-minute flight from LAX to Long Beach, a distance of approximately twenty-two miles, at enormous cost to the environment, because I’m both grossly wealthy and a total dick.

I wanted to take this opportunity to address some changes you may have noticed in our various Twitter offices. Aside from three-quarters of your co-workers no longer working there, of course.

As I have said before, this company is on a fast track to bankruptcy. Like, super-fast track. Imagine the Daytona Speedway. Now imagine all the cars racing on it are rocket cars. That’s how fast we’re zooming towards Chapter Seven. Or maybe Chapter Eleven. Fuck it, let’s just say all the chapters.

Obviously to save the company, I needed to make some cuts. And among those cuts are the janitorial staffs that keep our bathrooms clean and stocked with toilet paper.

Because let me make one thing clear to you: I, Elon Musk, never poop. And if I don’t poop, none of my employees should ever need to poop either.

Hang on a sec. We landed in Long Beach, but now we’re about to take off again and do a quick lap around Long Beach before landing again. Why? Because I fucking want to, that’s why.

Anyway, back to the bathrooms. I can hear all your complaints now. “But Elon, that backup of waste in our bodies is unhealthy! We could become septic! Our bowels could literally explode!”

Wah wah wah. That’s what you all sound like. A bunch of betas not one hundred percent committed to living, breathing, eating, and have dominant alpha sex with Twitter. A bunch of whiners who think highly invasive abdominal surgery would be a reasonable excuse to miss work.

Do any of you think I got to be the world’s richest man by concerning myself with biological issues like going to the bathroom? Every two-minute trip to the bathroom is two minutes I didn’t spend shaking down the government for subsidies or telling Twitter randos that they have shrunken nards. And that’s the sort of bold leadership we need to make this microblogging site load one-thousandth of a second faster on the iPhone.

So again, let me reiterate: If I don’t need a break to take a dump, then none of you should need a break to take a dump.

How fast was that lap around Long Beach? What? Nine minutes? You tell that pilot to do it again and he better shave at least one-third off that time, or else he’ll be working as a human air ratchet on the floor of the Tesla factory.

Do you know the last time I pinched a loaf on company time? It was 2002, and afterwards no one wanted to go into the PayPal server room for days.

Twenty years without dropping the kids off at the pool! That’s the sort of hardcore commitment that we need if we want to transform Twitter into the premier microblogging/merchandising/gaming/journalism/sports gambling/dating/fetish porn/recipe app on the planet.

So if I sleep at the office, you sleep at the office. If I don’t shower, then you don’t shower. If I eat nothing but takeout from that Mongolian place on Fulton, then you eat nothing but takeout from that Mongolian place on Fulton.

And above all else, if I don’t move my bowels, you don’t move your bowels. If you need a diaper, we’ve got all those #StayWoke t-shirts I sneered about finding when I took over the company.

Six minutes for that lap? Okay, better, but still not two-thirds off the first one. What? I only said one-third? Are you sure? Damn. The factory really needs a new air ratchet.

Of course you can all keep whining about unsanitary this and plagues of sewer rats crawling out of the toilets and overrunning our garbage dump of an office that. There are probably items and luxuries I haven’t cut yet. I already stopped paying rent on our offices. I can cut off heating as well. I can have overseers with bullwhips marching around the offices like you’re all a bunch of loom girls in a Victorian-era factory and I’m the owner with the giant beard and the sociopathic lack of interest in your health and well-being.

It’s your choice.

Okay! Now we’re headed from Long Beach to Hawthorne. It’s about twenty miles, so there is no excuse for not getting there in under ten minutes, including taxiing time. Tell the pilot if he doesn’t make it, he can go out to Florida and try to catch the next SpaceX booster rocket as it’s landing.

[New York Times]

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