As I’ve stated before, the world is metaphorically being set ablaze by some of history’s most inept individuals. It’s a tragic spectacle, really. During such tumultuous periods, one must strive to uncover silver linings amidst the chaos.
For me, the brightest silver lining comes from Elon Musk, a notable contributor to today’s rather bleak global atmosphere. His wealth is as staggering as the power that comes with it. He has a substantial influence over the president, much like a toddler with a prized toy. After purchasing Twitter, he somehow managed to make it an even drearier platform, spending an alarming amount of time there—like a party guest determined to linger after the snacks have run out.
It’s frustrating to witness such a socially awkward individual wielding so much power. Yet, there’s one comforting thought that eases my discontent: Musk will never truly find satisfaction. No matter how immense his fortune or how many sycophantic followers he acquires, he will always lack one critical quality—humor.
What Musk desperately seeks, his billions cannot procure: genuine laughter. Take, for instance, a clip from his attempt at humor on Joe Rogan’s show.
“The only silver lining is that Elon wants to be funny. Unfortunately, that’s one thing you can’t buy, not even with the help of sycophants like Joe Rogan.”
Watching Musk try to deliver a joke evokes the same discomfort as a cringe-worthy comedy or a visceral horror film. If you haven’t had the misfortune of seeing the clip (and I wouldn’t blame you), his setup involves two economists paying each other to eat—well, let’s say something unpleasant. The punchline, if it can be called that, gets butchered along the way.
The joke itself isn’t merely awkward; it’s delivered by someone who seems alien to humor altogether. Musk fumbles through the material as if he’s reading a foreign language—mispronouncing “shit” like a schoolboy caught in a forbidden word. The punchline vanishes under the weight of his awkwardness, while Rogan awkwardly chuckles—like a human caricature who laughs at predetermined moments.
This highlights Musk’s fundamental comedic flaw: his charm falls short of the mark. Even in the company of someone like Donald Trump, he manages to suck the energy out of the room. The individuals who lend him their ears seem to have ulterior motives, akin to moths drawn to a flickering bulb. Without his wealth, most would flee in haste, leaving only echoes of their footsteps behind.
Musk’s self-awareness appears limited; he doesn’t grasp that genuine humor requires relatability and empathy—qualities he seems to lack entirely. Renowned author Joyce Carol Oates recently critiqued him on social media for his disconnection from the world beyond his immense wealth. His predictable, defensive reactions to criticism suggest a lingering insecurity beneath his lofty exterior.
Ultimately, regardless of how much money you have, humor remains a tricky attribute to cultivate. In Musk’s case, it’s almost nonexistent. He could invest in an AI that mimics personality traits or construct a virtual companion programmed for laughter, but deep down, he would know it rings hollow. The facade he tries to maintain crumbles under scrutiny, revealing that he embodies the punchline instead of delivering it.
So, as I navigate through the comedic landscape of life, I find solace in the thought that the wealthiest man can’t purchase the one thing that truly matters—genuine laughter.
Rebecca Shaw is a columnist for Guardian Australia.
