By Carl Cantana
As much as I’ve called, emailed, and tweeted him, Elon Musk won’t come pick up the one-million-pound Falcon 9 rocket that landed in my above ground pool on Tuesday. Both of my ex-wives said they would come to my barbecue next weekend and I need all 9 Merlin engines gone by then. They both think I’m a slob and a 230-foot hulking mass of a rocket floating in my above ground pool is not going to help.
Hey Musk, guess what? Thomas Edison never ruined his neighbors’ garden parties by cranking his phonograph to full blast. Da Vinci never crashed his helicopter prototype into the Medici family dining hall while the royalty were throwing back chicken marsala. Henry Ford never ran his Model T into the Bull Moose Party Convention and then refused to pull Theodore Roosevelt from under the wreckage. So what gives?
Look, I get it, Elon. You’re a visionary. I just wish you had the vision to see how much trouble an enormous rocket hull submerged in my favorite cool-off spot is causing me. Summer is not too kind to us out here in Simi Valley, California and I’m going to need some sweet splash sessions in my abovie to make it through these heated months without losing my frickin grip.
I know you’ve read my emails, Elon. I track them.
Also, you need to get back to Brian down the street. The Boring Company drilled straight through his in-ground pool and he’s got a quinceañera to host this Thursday.