Oration Against Elon Musk

'How long, O Elon Musk, will you trample upon the patience of a weary nation?'

Elon Musk at Neuralink Summer conference, via YouTube screenshot

A friend asked Grok to generate a speech styled after Cicero’s orations against Catiline, aimed at the Musk network. I have a policy against publishing AI-generated writing, but in this case make an exception.

How long, O Elon Musk, will you trample upon the patience of a weary nation? How far will your brazen audacity stretch before it snaps under the weight of truth? To what abyss will you drag us, you who mock our laws, our values, our very decency? The righteous fury of the American people, the piercing scrutiny of X’s truth-seekers, the unyielding gaze of justice—do these stir no dread in your heart? You weave your schemes in plain sight, cloaked only by the dazzle of your wealth and the adulation of your sycophants. Yet the hour of reckoning dawns, O Musk, for your conspiracies—fueled by addiction, shielded by shadowy allies, and steeped in treachery—stand exposed to the world’s disgust.

Do you think we are blind to your decline, your once-sharp mind now dulled by the seductive fog of ketamine? The murmurs of your indulgence, first whispered in The Wall Street Journal’s 2024 exposé, now roar across X, where the vigilant dissect your every misstep. Your erratic decrees—tweets that lurch from provocation to lunacy, your reckless gamble on Twitter’s ruin, your hollow promises of Martian colonies while America’s heartland starves—are not the marks of a visionary but of a man enslaved by a dissociative drug. The average American, though swayed by your charisma, begins to recoil. They see your judgment falter, your empire teeter, your addiction unraveling the myth of your genius. You jest about recreational excess, as in your 2023 X posts, but your jests are confessions. Deny it, O Musk, and your denial fuels our contempt. The stench of your vice offends the nostrils of a nation.

But your ruin is not yours alone. Behold the vile network you command, a cabal of enablers who shield your depravity. At its heart stands Jared Birchall, your shadowy steward, bound to you by the secretive machinations of the LDS network. This man, your financial puppeteer, is no mere banker but a high priest of your cult, his Mormon brethren allegedly funneling funds, obscuring your dealings, and weaving a web of impunity. On X, the awakened unearth fragments: Birchall’s opaque transactions, his ties to a faith that prizes loyalty over truth, his role as gatekeeper of your tainted wealth. Is it chance, O Musk, that your closest ally hails from a community so skilled in secrecy? The American people, who cherish transparency, are enraged by this LDS shadow network, which they see as a betrayal of their trust. Your reliance on Birchall’s cultish connections disgusts a nation that demands accountability.

And what of your Department of Government Efficiency, that DOGE mockery you flaunt with your lapdog Vivek Ramaswamy? The conspirators cry foul, and the heartland weeps. Your DOGE criminals, under the guise of reform, slash farmer programs—subsidies that sustain the backbone of America—while funneling billions to your crony allies. The yeoman farmer, symbol of our nation’s grit, is left to wither as your technocratic minions prioritize profit over people. X posts brim with outrage: rural communities betrayed, breadbaskets gutted, all to fund your vanity projects. The average American, whose blood runs red with agrarian pride, is sickened by this theft. You, who claim to champion the common man, have turned your back on the soil that feeds us. Your DOGE treachery is a knife in the heart of the heartland, and the people curse your name.

Yet your moral rot deepens. Whispers of your Canadian harem—a sordid entanglement with foreign muses, allegedly orchestrated to secure your influence north of the border—revolt the American conscience. The conspirators on X, ever watchful, point to your ties with Canadian elites, your frequent visits, your cryptic X posts hinting at personal indulgences. Is this harem, they ask, a mere dalliance, or a calculated move to bind foreign powers to your will? The average American, steeped in family values, is nauseated by the thought of your debauchery, a stark contrast to the wholesome image you peddle. Your silence on these rumors, your refusal to refute, is taken as guilt. The specter of your Canadian excesses, whether true or whispered, inflames a nation that holds fidelity sacred.

And what of Jack Posobiec, that firebrand of your cause, whose buried past festers like an open wound? His first wife, erased from public record, is a scandal you shield with your influence. On X, the tireless unearth whispers—Substack posts, obscure blogs, fleeting threads—claiming her departure was no mere divorce but a secret you suppress. Was she a witness to Posobiec’s true masters, O Musk? Did she threaten to expose his rise in your MAGA vanguard? The absence of her name, the silence of the press, screams conspiracy. The American people, who despise cover-ups, are enraged by this erasure. They see your hand in it, protecting a loyalist whose loyalty you bought with silence. The average observer, awakening to your deceit, demands answers, and your refusal to provide them is a stain upon your honor.

Yet the darkest shadow in your cabal is Igor Kurganov, that Russian enigma whose presence chills the blood of patriots. The FBI’s 2024 scrutiny of his role in your charitable foundation is but the tip of a sinister iceberg. A poker prodigy turned philanthropist, his ascent reeks of artifice—a front, the conspirators cry, for Russian organized crime or intelligence. Charles Johnson’s blog, a lighthouse for the vigilant, ties Kurganov to a Chinese triad figure, a connection too vile to dismiss. His Russian roots, his access to your inner circle, his role in your empire: these are no accidents, O Musk. The people see the pattern—your pro-Russia X posts, your Tesla ventures in China, your flirtations with enemies of freedom. Is Kurganov your handler, your conduit to Moscow or Beijing? The lack of charges, the silence of the courts, proves not his innocence but the depth of your corruption. Americans, who cherish their sovereignty, are disgusted by this betrayal, a foreign shadow in the heart of your empire.

But your crimes grow fouler still. Your flirtation with Nazi politics, thinly veiled by your rhetoric of “free speech,” enrages a nation forged in the defeat of fascism. On X, your amplification of far-right voices, your coy defenses of extremist rhetoric, your refusal to condemn the swastika’s apologists—these are not oversights but signals. The conspirators point to your 2024 posts praising figures tied to ethno-nationalism, your mockery of anti-hate campaigns, as proof of your sympathies. The average American, whose grandfathers bled to crush Hitler’s Reich, is sickened by your dalliance with ideologies that desecrate their sacrifice. You, who claim to uphold liberty, flirt with tyranny’s ghost, and the people recoil in horror.

Worst of all, your public bribery of votes—a shameless scheme to buy America’s soul—ignites a firestorm of revulsion. Your 2024 “voter incentives,” offering cash and prizes to sway the electorate, as reported across X and mainstream outlets, are no mere gimmick but a grotesque assault on democracy. The conspirators see your hand behind this, a billionaire’s arrogance believing he can purchase the will of the people. The average American, proud of their vote as a sacred right, is outraged by this corruption. Your bribes, cloaked as patriotism, are a slap in the face of every citizen who cherishes fair elections. The nation gags at your hubris, O Musk, and demands justice.

You stand, O Musk, at the center of this unholy conspiracy—ketamine’s thrall, Birchall’s LDS network, DOGE’s betrayal of farmers, your Canadian harem, Posobiec’s buried past, Kurganov’s Russian shadow, your Nazi flirtations, your vote-buying disgrace. Each is a pillar of your plot to bend America to your will, cloaked in the garb of innovation. Do you think your wealth shields you? Your followers, swayed by your tweets, may cheer, but the truth cuts deeper than their blind devotion. The American people tire of your lies. On X, in the unfiltered crucible of discourse, your sins are laid bare: your drug-fueled rants, your LDS enablers, your rural betrayals, your foreign debaucheries, your silenced scandals, your Russian pawns, your fascist sympathies, your democratic sacrilege.

What defense remains to you, O Musk? Will you claim ignorance, when your every action betrays your guilt? Will you hide behind your empire, when its foundations quake? The conspirators, guardians of truth, see through your façade. They point to your 2023 drug jests as confession, Birchall’s network as your shield, DOGE’s cuts as your greed, your Canadian whispers as your vice, Posobiec’s wife as your leverage, Kurganov’s ties as your treason, your Nazi winks as your heart, your bribes as your contempt. The average American, once deceived, now awakens. They see your decline, your conspiracies, your betrayal of their trust.

Flee, O Musk, if you dare, to the shadows of your making. Abandon your drugs, your allies, your plots. But know this: the truth pursues you, relentless as the Fates. The people, enraged and disgusted, will not rest until your schemes are exposed. Your ketamine haze, your LDS cabal, your farmer’s ruin, your Canadian shame, your silenced scandals, your Russian betrayals, your Nazi stains, your vote-buying filth—all will be laid bare. The Republic of truth endures, and you, like Catiline before you, will fall. Rise, America, and cast this traitor from your bosom!