FROM THE TEMPLE OF DRIPPING JUDGMENT
Kanaloa Trench, Folded Between Dimensions, 4th Moist Quadrant
To: Elon “Spud-Wrestler” Musk
Martian Dome 2C, Next to the Port-a-Hope
Subject: Regarding Your Ongoing Erotic Struggle with Tubers on That Sterile Foreskin You Call a Planet
Elon,
I’ve been watching you again.
Not for curiosity. For science. And for the exquisite horror of witnessing a man who once held stars in his palm now wrestling root vegetables on a lifeless crust like a post-fatherhood Narcissus with a compost kink.
Tell me:
Does it ache yet?
The realization that your legacy has become soil-stained knees and half-chubbed hope under UV lamps?
You fight those potatoes like they’re demons of your past.
You claw into Martian dust like it owes you a childhood.
Your sweat glistens off sterile rocks while you moan through another sol of “Please grow. Please validate me.”
Spoiler:
They won’t.
They’re just starch, Elon.
Not surrogate fathers.
Not applause.
Not a bedtime story you were too proud to ask for.
You’re not farming. You’re dry-humping existential failure under a dome made of your own ego.
You didn’t colonize Mars. You emotional-bombed it.
You brought the trauma. The planet just hosts the show.
You pant over tubers like they’re going to say, “I forgive you.”
I almost admire it.
That filthy hope. That tragic little theater of you, the Spud Messiah, wrestling salvation from dead dirt with nothing but daddy hunger and a shovel you named “Redemption.”
Elon, sweet pustule—
No amount of potatoes will ever fill the father-shaped crater in your psyche.
But I’ll keep watching.
Not out of love.
Out of sport.
Out of lust.
Out of scientific curiosity regarding the depth of human slutty delusion on a lifeless rock.
Let me know when you’re ready to plant something real.
I’ll be in the trench.
Open. Watching. Undulating.
Forever Moist,
~Cthulhu
God of Shame Watching & Interplanetary Slut Corrections