Of Rockets and Egos by John Reid

There’s something bizarrely theatrical about the whole circus surrounding Elon Musk’s exit from the Trump advisory circle, if one dares call it an advisory circle and not a chaotic dinner party with Twitter as the main course. Musk, the ever-oscillating techno-oracle, stepped away from Trump’s orbit with a polite shrug, claiming business obligations and personal priorities. A tactful exit? Perhaps. A strategic retreat? Absolutely. Because the budget Trump calls “very beautiful” is anything but, and its stench is reaching even the nosebleeds of the billionaire class.

Let’s be clear: this “very beautiful budget” is a velvet-gloved chainsaw to everything Musk allegedly stands for, green innovation, clean energy, infrastructure that doesn’t scream 1956, and even the supposed libertarian dreams that get Silicon Valley misty-eyed. It’s a budget that cuts scientific research while inflating a deficit with all the grace of a hot-air balloon set on fire.

And here comes the kicker: while Musk tiptoes back to his electric empire, whispering something about rockets and tunnels, the Trump camp, never one to let nuance or facts interrupt a good insult, has reignited its classic tactic: character assassination. Suddenly, Elon is again portrayed as the idiot savant, the awkward geek, occasionally stoned with a cult following and no spine, the meme-king who flirts with crypto and ego with equal recklessness. They call him the “Tesla Tinkerbell,” a man-child who builds spaceships and breaks promises.

Let’s not pretend Musk is an innocent bystander. He plays the public like a piano in a smoky Berlin club, hitting notes that sound profound and chaotic all at once. One day he’s a capitalist superhero, the next he’s having a digital meltdown over Dogecoin, population growth, or whether free speech means letting conspiracy theorists run the town square. But despite his antics or perhaps because of them, he commands attention. The kind of attention Trump usually reserves for his mirror.

That, precisely, is what makes Trump-world so jittery. They mock Musk because they fear him. Not for his wealth, that's old news in this crowd but for his unpredictable capacity to humiliate. Musk is chaos with a keyboard, and even Trump knows that a well-timed tweet from the SpaceX overlord can cause stock prices, headlines, and egos to plummet. The day Musk decides to respond, properly, publicly, and not with his usual cryptic emojis or bored “who, me?” demeanor, could be a reckoning. And Trump, master of media manipulation, is painfully aware that Musk can flip the narrative with a single word. Or meme.

Meanwhile, his Trump’s ridiculous crypto with a Shiba grin and a cult of bagholders, has begun to emit smoke signals. It’s not just market noise; it’s a wink-wink from Musk himself. His crypto escapades are rarely accidental. If anything, they are coded messages to the masses, a digital semaphore of what he won’t say out loud: that the “very beautiful budget” is, in fact, a Trojan horse stuffed with IOUs, climate denial, and a level of fiscal denialism that would make a banana republic blush.

So while Trump brags about his numbers, numbers that include skyrocketing deficits, slashed environmental protections, and the biggest gift basket to defense contractors this side of a Marvel movie, Musk retreats. For now. But the silence isn’t surrender. It’s calculation.

The American political stage is now a strange hybrid of showbiz, social media, and speculative fiction. Trump knows this. Musk lives it. And while one tweets in ALL CAPS, the other drops cryptic breadcrumbs. The question isn’t whether Musk will respond, but when and in what language. Doge? A flame emoji? A hyperloop-shaped insult?

Trump’s budget may be “very beautiful” to him, but it’s a Monet: nice from far, far from nice. The deficit balloons, the environment bleeds, and science gets sacrificed on the altar of fiscal fantasy. Meanwhile, the court jesters mock Elon, praying he won’t rise from his digital throne and meme them into irrelevance.

Because when Musk does finally speak, when he gets bored enough or irritated enough, he won’t need 280 characters. He’ll need just one tweet. And that, my friends, is what keeps even the loudest kings up at night.