Last night, as any young socialist in America would do on a day devoted to the laborer, I drank to my comrades at a small bar in rural Nevada. Straight vodka, like the revolutionaries who inspire my every decision. And the vodka wasn’t the only thing that was straight that night. I, also, was very straight.
It was fitting to be honest, on a day when the oppressed drink to celebrate, the oppressors drink to cope. That’s how, on Labor Day 2018, in the only town within a hundred miles that didn’t have a single citizen that followed him on twitter, Elon Musk and I ended up at the same bar.
His eyes were watery; perhaps he was overburdened by the relentless demands of the radical laborers who wished him personal, unending harm through absurd requests like “living wages”. Perhaps he was crying because he couldn’t get Comrade Azealia and Comrade Grimes to kick him in the nuts repeatedly at the same time, but to me it didn’t matter. He had the look of a kicked puppy, if that kicked puppy were dressed like the Monopoly Man - and I took pity on him. I offered to buy him a drink.
He took a sip of the brew, a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “So this is how the 99% live,” he joked. My traitorous loins rebelled against my Marxist inclinations, and we chuckled a little too long to be entirely innocent. He told me all about how hard Labor Day is for a man such as himself. How terrifying it is to be a billionaire in a country that is growing ever more hostile to his existence. A single tear fell from his cybernetically-enhanced eye, dabbed by a solid gold leaf handkerchief. His words cut me deep. Was I perhaps too harsh on these billionaires? Maybe they just needed someone, anyone, maybe even some person on twitter, to care.
“You know, even though your business practices make me want to firebomb your factories…it’s you who’s firebombed my heart, Elon.” He grabbed my hand. In that moment I felt a rush of adrenaline. My whole life I dedicated everything to the collective; never taken a single dime for myself. My only piece of private property was a single one of Stalin’s mustache hairs in a jewelry bag under my community provided pillow. And yet I wanted him...damn it all! Damn Comrade Engels and damn his material collectivism, I wanted to have something… I wanted to have him!
He whisked me back to his house in his brand new Tesla. The whole time my head was spinning, racing with fears of what could happen if anyone found out, I could be called out, or even worse - cancelled. But I didn’t care. My Twitter presence didn’t matter anymore.
As we entered his house, I began to strip between tongueless kisses. Elon stopped me with a whisper, “No… let us”. He clapped his hands and three robots appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. In a second they had forcibly ripped our clothes from our bodies, leaving second-degree friction burns across my entire body. God it was hot how he automated even the most intimate of moments.
He pushed me onto the bed, and I begged for him. “Fuck me like you would have fucked the lead crisis in Flint, Elon! Break me like the will of your minimum-wage workers.”
“Please… call me Ol’ Musky.” He tried to imitate a human grin, and he nearly succeeded.
He jumped onto the bed and began to paw awkwardly at my breasts.. Three minutes later and he was done and asleep. I laid there, unsatisfied, staring at the ceiling. What had I done? There was no way the DSA would ever let me back after this. I would be a laughing stock in the activist community. All for nothing. But in the back of my mind I knew I would do it all again - you don’t unmake a decision that ends up with you sleeping on a seven million dollar mattress.