So little brings me joy these days but, girl, when I tell you I’m loving every second of the psychodrama apparently playing out between Elon Musk, Stephen Miller and Stephen’s wife Katie, I am loving every second of it.
If you don’t already know, I’m going to recommend you put down whatever food you’re consuming out of concern for the choking hazard that will result from learning that the Musks and Millers were, as widespread but wholly-unconfirmed rumors on social media have teased giddily, involved. And yes, I mean involved. And yes, I mean all three of them.
This relationship, which I repeat is based only on unceasing—and, again, unverified—rumor-mongering at this point, apparently began when Katie was working as a DOGE spokesperson and liaison between the White House and Musk’s team. What happened, do you think? Did a little late night romance bud as they cut off foreign aid for starving children?
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Whatever the origin story of the alleged throupling, it seems to have ended this week when Katie appeared to choose Elon over her Nosferatu-cosplaying hubby, leaving the administration to go work full-time with him.
Did tongues wag over Katie’s choice of a very phallic Space X rocket blasting off as her banner photo on Twitter to announce her departure? They did. Did Stephen then subtweet Elon with a b-tchy post about “the budget”? He did. Does all of this have anything to do with the black eye Elon was sporting during his Oval Office send-off this week?
Inquiring minds very much want to know.
Now look, there’s certainly an opportunity to zoom out from this, allegedly, sordid mess and pontificate on the irony of the family values party once again playing by rules separate from those they would impose on everybody else. Somebody really ought to write that piece! But I prefer to focus on the fact that the Democratic party’s official account tweeted a photo of a chair in a corner— a cuck chair—and addressed it to @StephenM.
Like, daaaaamn.
And yes, one could certainly condemn the Millers and Musk for playing footsie with each other while carelessly playing with other people’s lives. But I would rather focus, for the moment, on the delicious image playing in my mind of Katie Miller enjoying a kiss shared between her pasty lovers.
I warned you to put down your food.
Can you picture it? The three of them whispering sweet nothings to each other about white genocide? The ketamine serving as an aperitif to a night of impassioned population growth ahead? Katie Miller become the sire of Elon’s 15th or 16th child—or whatever the number has gotten up to these days?
I’ll be honest—I don’t care who’s schtupping who. I don’t care if Glenn Greenwald has a sex tape. I don’t care that Sen. Joni “We are all going to die” Ernst allegedly slept with an Air Force general lobbying her committee. Or that Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene allegedly had an affair with her Crossfit instructor—and, as The Daily Mail described him, a “tantric sex guru.” I don’t care that Corey Lewandowski and Sec. Kristi Noem, both married, have allegedly been carrying on a very public dalliance. And I don’t care who Rep. Lauren Boebert is fondling at any given cultural institution. I support folks getting freaky in the style and manner of their choosing. It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t even be writing about it.
Except that it’s so damned funny.
These people, these grotesque MAGA tryhards worshipping at the feet of their adulterer-in-chief, deserve whatever mockery is heading their way. Not because it’s an effective political ploy. Not because doing so will make a single American’s life any better. But because, while they have no shame, they hate being laughed at. Hate it.
Which is why you can shoot all of that stuff straight into my veins. And sure, put some of that Covid-killing bleach in too—at this point I’m here for all of it.
I’m here for these pompous gasbags getting lit up for their lies and hypocrisy. I’m here for the jokes the Millers and Musk will be enduring from late-night comics, just as I was a ready and willing participant in the “JD Vance diddles couches” discourse that brought some much-needed comic relief to a grim presidential campaign.
Can we say with full confidence Vance never went full hillbilly elegy on a sofa crack? I mean, he has never outright denied it. Can we say for sure that this West Wing polycule is just the stuff of nightmares? To date, neither Musk nor the Millers have commented either. We just don’t know.
And that’s worrying, isn’t it?
With all the national security and financial concerns at play, perhaps we should shut these three down until we figure out what the hell is going on. Perhaps Kash Patel could take a break from purging the FBI to investigate. Maybe Rep. James Comer, Chairman of the House Oversight Committee who was so very interested in Hunter Biden’s d--k pics, will hold hearings on the matter.
I hope Musk and the Millers make peace with whatever their romantic situation happens to be. I hope we can all move on from these terrible rumors which do nothing but detract from the important business of making America great again. And you know what else I hope? I hope that there’s a sex tape.
Because God, would that be hilarious.
