DeathJuice Energy Drink

There was a time, in the fluorescent-lit basements of the 80s and early 90s, when racing RC cars was everything. We tinkered with Kyoshos until our cuticles bled, drooled over Team Associated buggies, and showed up to car parks with Tamiya and Schumacher wagons—the batteries barely charged, the excitement at full tilt.

And then came nitro.
Suddenly, electric was “kid stuff.” Nitro was the grown-up’s toy: thunderous, oily, and chaotic. We all bought in. Speed! Noise! The authentic whiff of burning cash and patience! We spent more time wrenching than racing and probably lost a decade of Saturday afternoons to engine tuning, clutch failures, and the gentle art of apologizing to neighbors.

Then, something happened.
We realized fun had left the chat.

Sound Familiar, Gearheads?

Look outside: it’s not just RC cars doing this dance.
Gasoline and diesel ruled the road. Everybody wanted a fuel-burner with horsepower numbers you could brag about. Turbo lag was a badge of honor.
You learned to love the grind—oil changes, timing belts, spark plugs, mind-numbing maintenance every weekend. “It’s part of the ritual,” you told yourself, much like your old RC club’s nitro nuts.

Fast-forward: the world is plugging in and checking out of the internal combustion arms race.
The Tesla S Plaid will beat your vintage GTI from a stoplight. Rivian pickups drift harder than you on Gran Turismo. And just like the RC track, the new electric kids are doing two things that matter most: going faster and having way more fun.

The Old Guard Strikes Back

There’s always a guy clutching the past like a glow-plug wrench—gatekeeping, grumbling about how “real” cars have a clutch pedal (and, presumably, an 8-track and a glovebox full of mixtapes). “It’s about the driving experience,” he insists, somewhere between oil stains and nostalgia.

But open your eyes:

• Electric RC wasn’t supposed to take over—until it did.
• Electric cars weren’t “real” cars—until they destroyed everyone’s numbers.
• The quiet, reliable, insane, plug-n-play fun wins, every time.

Why the Smart Money (and Fun) Is on Electric

• Maintenance? What maintenance? Plug in. Go. Repeat.
• Speed? Electric is cheating. Lipo or lithium—it launches like a slingshot and you barely blink before breaking traction.
• Reliability? Want to race or want to wrench?
• Joy? Remember that? It’s back.

Sure, there are diehards rewriting the rulebooks to try to keep their old world spinning. But when the world flipped to lipo on the track, and EVs on the street, the game changed. “But the noise!” they wail, tuning their exhausts and their radio to the Oldies. Just like the nitro crowd at club day.

Hey, we love a classic. But nostalgia doesn’t win races.

Conclusion: RC or Reality, Electric Rules

Nitro RC was king—until electric made speed accessible and reliable.
Petrol cars ruled—until EVs made torque instantaneous and maintenance a footnote.

The next car you’ll really want? Probably electric.
Because you’ll be driving, not dreaming, and actually having a blast.

You can cling to the past—or you can discover just how much fun the future really is.

deathjuice.com
If you love fun more than frustration, plug in, and punch it.

Filed under: Accidental Tech Purchases, Parenting Decisions Made at 11PM

A few weeks ago, I was ready to make the respectable, adult upgrade from my trusty Raspberry Pi 400 to the Pi 500. A modest jump. A “treat yourself, because you answered at least three emails this week” kind of moment.

But in classic Raspberry Pi fashion, right as my wallet began to open they quietly dropped the Pi 500 Plus. It has an SSD. It has a mechanical keyboard. It lights up like a Vegas buffet sign. It can probably summon spirits if you press the F-keys in the wrong order.

Naturally, I needed it immediately.

The Great Pi Chase

If you’ve ever tried to buy anything Raspberry Pi makes, you know the rule:

If you’re not there at launch, with your browser refreshed to the point of medical concern, the thing is gone. Gone like your New Year’s resolutions. Gone like your hopes, dreams, and that missing Tupperware lid.

Still, I tossed a hopeful backorder to CanaKit.

They replied: “It’ll be a few weeks.”

And then, Immediately after that email came the shipping notification.

Two days later? The Pi 500 Plus was sitting on my porch like it had hitchhiked across state lines to find me.

The Keyboard That Exposed My Weaknesses

The first thing I noticed: the mechanical keyboard.

This thing clicks. It clacks. It reminds you that membrane keyboards have been coddling your weak little fingers for years.

Do I personally enjoy typing on a keyboard that sounds like a 1980s newsroom reporting on Watergate?

No.

But I didn’t buy it for me.

Enter: Young Viking Destroyer

This machine’s true destiny is serving Young Viking Destroyer, who needs a real computer but does not need me dropping a grand on a MacBook so she can watch YouTube, play browser games, and type one paragraph about the water cycle.

And let me tell you:

The lights?

The effects?

The keyboard that bursts into rainbow fireworks every time she hits Enter?

Tween catnip.

She loves it.

Which means she uses it.

Which means: victory.

Tech Specs? Sure. It Has Some.

Look, if you’re reading Deathjuice, you know the truth:

Specs only matter when you’re arguing with strangers in comment sections.

The Pi 500 Plus:

• Has memory.

• Has an SSD.

• Turns on.

• Does stuff.

• Makes numbers appear on a screen.

• Doesn’t scream in pain.

What actually matters:

• It plays the exact games tweens will spend three hours on while eating cereal out of a mug.

• It opens Google Docs without collapsing.

• It runs YouTube flawlessly, which is 98% of computing for the younger generation.

• It streams everything your household already pays for.

• It works with iCloud and all the office-y software adults pretend to care about.

Do you need more?

No.

Unless you’re one of those people who believes you must own a $6,000 basement gaming rig cooled by liquid nitrogen to check email.

In which case, Godspeed. May your lights and fans guide you to peace.

Final Thoughts Before the Keyboard Clicks Again

The Raspberry Pi 500 Plus is a fantastic all-in-one machine.

Not “I mine crypto while flying a drone” powerful.

Not “my PC needs its own HVAC system” powerful.

But powerful enough for actual humans doing actual things.

It’s affordable.

It’s fun.

It’s reliable.

It doesn’t require a degree in wizardry.

And it keeps your tween delighted without you needing to remortgage your house for a laptop.

10/10 would buy again…

Though my fingers might unionize over the keyboard.

By DeathJuice Editorial | Retro-Futurist Dispatch | 1789 meets 2025

👑 The Land of the Crowned and the Hungry

Somewhere between the golden glow of power and the flickering fluorescent of a closed government office, the kingdom sleeps.

Millions of Americans face empty cupboards, missed paychecks, and the bitter comedy of “budget negotiations”  while the self-appointed royals debate over dessert.

If the government reopened today, the starving might get fed.

But not healed.

Because “affordable medical care” remains the punchline to a joke that no one’s laughing at.

Affordable to who?

That remains another topic or, more precisely, another lie.

🍰 Should They Eat Cake?

Our queen, who once looked like she could have been a Miss Universe 1999 judge, now rules in pearls and faux fur. Her Communist red baseball crown reads: “Should They Eat Cake?”

Beside her stands the King Of Felons a man whose hue is said to recall a well done citrus fruit, crowned in Chinese velvet in the color of communism with the bold lettering: “Make America Starve Again.”

Their subjects? You. Me. The unpaid. The uninsured. The unseen.

And as the airports close, the king’s great wall that monument to imagined threats, becomes a cruel twist of irony. It no longer keeps anyone out.

It keeps us in.

🚫 The Wall Isn’t About Safety Anymore

It’s a gilded cage.

A patriotic panic room where the elite sip cocktails and mutter about “the optics.”

Flights are grounded. Workers furloughed. Farmers unpaid.

But the private jets still hum like lullabies over the quiet streets.

The wall stands tall, not as protection, but as punctuation a full stop in the story of progress.

🍅 The Ketchup Club

But don’t despair!

While the poor ration canned beans, the rich are still finding new hobbies.

In private clubs lit like Martian ballrooms, the privileged let your children lick ketchup from their ears. But only if they are naked.

It’s a new kind of communion, the body and blood of capitalism itself.

It’s grotesque. It’s decadent. It’s America, baby.

Where the taste of excess covers the smell of hunger.

💉 The Price of “Affordable”

Meanwhile, those on the outside scroll through medical portals and debt collectors’ texts.

The “Affordable Care” page loads slowly, but not as slowly as the realization that “affordable” never meant you.

If you can’t pay the premium, pray.

If you can’t see a doctor, don’t cough in public.

If you can’t feed your kid, tell them it’s a national fast. 

How long before their Churches have call for daily fasting?

The king calls it “resilience.”

The queen calls it “patriotism.”

We call it malice dressed as management.

Or simply the retribution you voted for.

🏛️ The Royal We

Here’s the final joke:

The shutdown isn’t a pause.

It’s the plan.

The suffering isn’t collateral, it’s currency.

Every delay, every closure, every excuse is a dividend paid to the powerful for your endurance.

Because when the government shuts down, the system doesn’t stop.

It just decides who counts.

🔻 The DeathJuice Takeaway

The government could reopen today.

The starving could eat.

The sick could heal.

The people could move.

But the caps stay on, the walls stay high, and the message stays the same:

“Make America Starve Again.”

Because in this royal shutdown, the crown’s made of his communist financiers fabric and the kingdom’s built on fumes

The Refrigeration Engineer As the New God

Somewhere between the pews of patriotism and the pulpit of paranoia, America crowned its newest savior, a refrigeration engineer. A man who fixes the ICE machine, not the “illegal immigrant” problem. But hey, details are hard when you’re too busy saluting your own reflection.

The confusion is poetic, really. A nation that mistakes cruelty for conviction would, of course, mistake a repairman for redemption. “He makes ICE!” they cry. “He must be one of us!”

Bless their chilled, irony-proof hearts.

It’s not that the engineer wanted worship. He just wanted the compressor to stop rattling. But next thing you know, someone’s kneeling in the Home Depot parking lot, asking him to baptize their AR-15.

This is America in 4K absurdity. A place where faith means “my side,” freedom means “my rules,” and Christianity is just the dress code for nationalism’s Sunday best. We’ve canonized commentators and crowned conspiracy preachers as prophets. The Book of Matthew never mentioned Facebook Lives, but that didn’t stop anyone from rewriting the gospel in red, white, and algorithm.

So, if you hear the whir of an ice machine tonight, breath and relax. It’s not divine intervention. It’s just someone doing their job.

The real miracle would be if America could tell the difference.

By DeathJuice.com | October 8, 2025 | By Monty Python’s Disgruntled Auto Club

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[Triumphant Fanfare Plays, Followed by the Sound of a Dying Battery]

And now for something completely stupid.

Tesla the world’s most ambitious startup cosplaying as a car company has proudly announced its newest innovation: less car for more money! Introducing the Tesla Model 3 Standard, or as we like to call it, The Model 3 Subtraction.

For the low, low price of $38,380, you too can experience the thrill of not having a radio, not having ventilated seats, and not having any remaining dignity.

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🏦 “AFFORDABLE” IS A STATE OF MIND

Tesla insists that this new “Standard” model makes electric driving more accessible. How? By making sure you can’t afford to want one.

The car starts at $36,990, but of course there’s a $1,390 “getting it to you” fee, a $250 “we can’t refund that” fee, and a $10 “tire fee” presumably to ensure your car comes with tires. Because why not charge for that? Next year, look out for Tesla’s Optional Steering Wheel Experience Package™ for $499.

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🔌 LESS POWER, MORE SOUL (DEPLETION)

The new Model 3 boasts a range of 321 miles, or roughly the distance from your house to the next working charger. It’s slower, heavier, and less exciting than a beige Volvo in loafers.

Tesla has even replaced its “fancy shock absorbers” with something called “passive shock absorbers.”We assume this means the suspension simply accepts your fate without complaint, a perfect metaphor for Tesla’s modern customer base.

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📻 RADIO? YOU MEAN “VINTAGE SILENCE”?

In an era where even microwaves have Bluetooth, Tesla has bravely eliminated the radio antenna. No AM. No FM. No joy. Just you, your thoughts, and the sound of your existential dread echoing off the glass roof.

Want to listen to the news? Too bad. Want to hear music? Hope you like buffering.

For an extra $0, Elon Musk himself will not call you to explain why.

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🪑 THE INTERIOR: WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE

The Model 3 Standard’s interior is a triumph of subtraction. The seats are now part textile, part despair. Rear passengers get manual air vents — a thrilling callback to the 1987 Toyota Corolla.

Gone are the heated seats, powered mirrors, and ambient lighting. In fact, if you sit still long enough, you may feel Tesla slowly removing more features via over-the-air update.

One driver reportedly got into his Model 3 Standard last night to find his horn had been reassigned to premium only.

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🌞 GLASS ROOF, BLACK SEATS, PURE HELL

Unlike its more expensive sibling, the Model 3 Standard keeps its glass roof. Which is lovely unless you live anywhere the sun exists. Combine that with the all-black interior, and congratulations! You’ve purchased a rolling convection oven.

Nothing says “sustainable luxury” like peeling yourself off vegan leather every August morning.

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🏁 IN CONCLUSION: THE CAR FOR TRUE BELIEVERS

If you’ve ever said, “I wish my car made me feel more like a monk in a minimalist monastery,” Tesla has delivered.

For everyone else — there’s Hyundai, Nissan, and the faint memory of when Tesla felt like the future instead of a punchline.

At DeathJuice.com, we salute Tesla for its unwavering dedication to doing less, charging more, and calling it innovation.

Next week on DeathJuice:

• “Cybertruck Update: Now 14% More Angular, 100% Less Delivered”

• “Musk’s Next Big Thing: Pay-per-Blip Headlights”

• “We Test-Drive a Leaf and Feel Emotions Again”

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[End Scene: A man in a suit drives the new Model 3 into a field and yells “This car is electric!” before the screen fades to black with the caption:]

“And now for something completely refundable.

The Case for Renaming the Democratic Party (and Why the Donkey Might Thank You)

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Ladies, gentlemen, and those unsure which party to despise today, welcome to the Divided States of America, where “Democracy” has become a four-letter word and “Freedom” comes with a $39.99 subscription fee (plus shipping, handling, and moral outrage).

Let’s start by peeling this onion, yes, the same one Americans can’t seem to peel without weeping on cable news.

The problem isn’t just politics. It’s branding.

Somewhere between Hope and Change™ and Make America Great Again™, the United States managed to confuse a political party with a political process. And when people began to distrust “Democrats,” they quietly began to distrust “democracy.”

A linguistic time bomb planted in plain sight.

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🍷 “The Democratic Party” When Words Become Their Own Worst Enemy

Let’s be honest: the name “Democratic Party” sounds noble enough to have been invented by a committee of philosophers and trademark lawyers.

But after a few decades of partisan trench warfare, it’s become a paradox:

People who hate “Democrats” now subconsciously hate “Democracy.”

And people who love “Democracy” can’t explain why they’re constantly apologizing for Democrats.

It’s like naming your local pub “The Sober Bar” noble intent, confusing execution.

So here we are: a nation where political parties are brand identities and civic participation is an unpaid internship.

Where “Democrat” now conjures not the Athenian ideal of civic equality but a 74-year-old man on Twitter yelling at a toaster about student debt relief.

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🐴 Maybe the Donkey Needs a Rebrand

Let’s call a spade a spade (or perhaps a shovel, given the size of this political hole).

If you were running a Fortune 500 company and your brand name caused half your customers to burn your products on TikTok, you’d rebrand faster than you can say ‘New Coke.’

So what could the Democrats rename themselves to uncouple the word “Democratic” from the slow-motion implosion of American democracy?

Some options:

• The People’s Popular Participation League (PPP just rolls off the tongue like government paperwork)

• The Reasonable Humans Party (unpopular in most states)

• The Party Formerly Known as Democratic (Prince would be proud)

• The Leftovers (accurate, Netflix tie-in pending)

• Blueish, but Not Communist, Promise (tested well in focus groups of suburban dads)

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🧠 Why the Name Actually Matters

Words shape perception.

If enough people equate Democrat with dishonest, corrupt, or elitist, then democracy itself begins to stink of the same perfume.

That’s not a conspiracy it’s neurolinguistics.

And it’s been happening slowly, deliberately, across decades of talk radio, social media memes, and late-night “truth-telling” by millionaires in trucker hats.

Call it Operation Semantic Subversion:

“If you can’t destroy democracy, destroy its synonyms.”

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🦅 The Republican Advantage: Masterclass in Linguistic Judo

To their credit, the GOP understood the assignment.

They branded themselves not with ideology but identity: freedom, family, flags, firearms, and fried foods.

It’s a perfectly seasoned stew of emotional triggers.

Meanwhile, the Democrats show up to the same dinner party with a 57-page PDF about “multilateral frameworks for equitable tax reform.”

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🧂So Who Would Benefit from a Name Change?

Short answer: everyone except the cable news industry.

1. The Democrats themselves They could reboot the brand, disarm the language trap, and maybe even attract the 60% of voters who think “independent” means “I hate both of you equally.”

2. The GOP Ironically, they’d benefit too, because they’d finally need to argue with ideas instead of just syllables.

3. Democracy itself If we stop using it as a political football, it might go back to being what it was always meant to be: the messy art of disagreeing without bayonets.

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🧅 The Onion Layer That Hurts Most

At the core of this whole farce is something simple:

We’ve turned language into a weapon and civics into a meme war.

You can’t fix that with a logo redesign but you can at least stop naming your party after the very system you’re making people hate.

So maybe it’s time for the Democrats to do what Americans do best:

Rebrand the problem instead of solving it.

And when they unveil the new logo bold, blue, freshly focus-grouped they can step to the podium and say,

“We’re not the Democratic Party anymore.

We’re the People Formerly Known as Rational Thought.”

Cue applause. Cue confusion. Cue the next cycle of democracy, divided and divine, limping bravely toward the next shutdown.

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⚰️ desthjuice.com because truth, like democracy, needs a stiff drink

How a pint of populism, a pocketful of cash, and a boatload of lies set Britain adrift.

“If you can’t catch fish, catch followers. They sell better anyway.”

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The Setup: When the Grift Outgrew the Gimmick

In the early days of UKIP, the plan was simple: sell a dream nobody ever expected to deliver.

A patriotic fairy tale about sovereignty, fishing rights, and sticking it to the bureaucrats in Brussels.

A perfect con because it wasn’t supposed to work.

But like all great British tragedies, the joke went too far. The lie became law.

And when Brexit actually happened, Nigel Farage the barroom messiah of “taking back control” did what every magician does when the trick backfires.

He vanished.

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The Fisherman: Mick Mahon’s Curse

Enter Mick Mahon, the lonely fisherman turned self-funded messiah of the sea.

He wanted purpose, he wanted applause, and he had the money to buy both.

Mahon’s story was one long fish tale.

He told the world the fishing trade ruined him but behind the scenes, he was close enough to the Fisheries Ministry to know which boats were about to be decommissioned.

And in a twist only irony could write, Mick was quietly buying and operating Spanish boats while publicly raging about Spanish boats destroying the English industry.

A hypocrite in waders.

A patriot for hire.

And a mirror reflection of his idol, Nigel the Navigator of Nonsense.

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The Fraud: The Cult of Control

Nigel didn’t build a party he built a pantomime.

The applause came not from belief, but from boredom.

He gave the disillusioned something to boo at, then sold tickets to the outrage.

While Mick poured in cash like chum into the water, Nigel reeled in cameras and donors with the ease of a man who knows a sucker when he sees one.

And when the tide turned when Brexit became reality, when the nation actually left Nigel quit.

No plan, no policy, no follow-up act. Just a “mission accomplished” grin and a yacht named Hypocrisysomewhere off the coast of plausible deniability.

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The Aftermath: A Movement Built on Mud

The party collapsed. The candidates faded. The flags gathered dust.

But the damage was done a nation divided, a currency weakened, a people gaslit into thinking chaos was courage.

Mick Mahon died alone, buried with his his dogs ashes, his name a footnote in a farce that spun too fast.

Nigel Farage rebranded, resurrected, and returned for another round proving that in British politics, the undead always find a new audience.

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The Punchline

They sold nationalism by the pint, poured populism by the barrel, and left the country to mop up the hangover.

The fisherman thought he was buying belonging. The fraud knew he was selling fantasy.

And between them, they managed to prove the oldest rule in politics:

“You can’t drain the swamp when you’re too busy fishing in it.”

(A friendly dispatch from the DeathJuice.Committee with love, and mild concern)

Ah, the Americans are at it again. Government shutdown number… what is it now? We’ve lost count, but it’s somewhere between “Groundhog Day” and “How I Met Your Shutdown.” While the overlord politicians flex their rhetorical muscles over “funding” and “healthcare subsidies,” the average freedom enthusiast is left peeling an onion without the faintest clue how to get to the core of the issue.

Spoiler: most of them don’t even own a decent paring knife.

Once Upon a Time (in a Functional Economy)

Quick history lesson from the right side of the pond: once upon a time, big companies ruled the land. If you worked for one or for your friendly neighborhood Lord of the Manor you got the whole package: a cottage, a few quid, maybe even a doctor who’d patch you up if you keeled over at the plough. Not because they cared, mind you but because they wanted you back at work before tea time.

Lesson over. Simple, wasn’t it?

Welcome to the Divided States of America

Now fast-forward to the United (or Divided, depending on your Twitter feed) States of America, where healthcare is the new battlefield. Citizens wage war from their touchscreens, passionately debating whether the Affordable Care Act or as it’s affectionately known, “Obamacare”  deserves to exist.

Here’s the kicker: it’s not even about free healthcare. It’s about a tax credit. A polite little discount for people who don’t get insurance through their employers you know, those old-fashioned corporations from our earlier fairy tale.

So let’s recap: it’s not socialism, it’s a coupon.

The Great American Dream (Terms and Conditions Apply)

Imagine you’re living the dream your own business, big ideas, freedom ringing in the background. Thanks to that tax credit, you can afford to gamble a bit. Your healthcare “insurance” costs you about $100 a month, and you feel unstoppable.

But should you actually use it say, for something silly like an emergency you’ll be invited on a delightful guided tour of medical bankruptcy!

Choose your own adventure:

• 💸 Plan A: Default with dignity.

• 📉 Plan B: Crowdfund your appendectomy.

• 🏦 Plan C: Move in with your parents.

Ah, the sweet taste of freedom stock market fresh, baby!

And the Plot Thickens (Like American Cheese)

Now, the corporate overlords those same fine folks from the manor days are struggling to attract “talent.” Their solution? Simple: eliminate the tax credit. Not to give that guy with a dream less money, mind you just to take more of it back.

Our heroic dreamer now faces a $2,000 monthly premium just to access the “Personalized Bankruptcy Experience™.” Unable to keep his dream afloat, he trudges back to the corporate grindstone, tail between his entrepreneurial legs.

And that, dear readers, is why your politicians funded by those boardroom barons will ensure that garage workshop world-changer never quite makes it out of the garage.

In Summary

America’s healthcare system isn’t broken.

It’s perfectly designed to keep the peasants insured just long enough to stay indebted.

But hey, at least you still have freedom.

And onions.

You just haven’t figured out how to peel either

So, Trump finally “declassified the Epstein files.” Big news, right? Bombshell stuff? The internet braced itself for revelations about billionaires, islands, and names whispered at cocktail parties. Instead, America got… Amelia Earhart.

Yes, you read that correctly. In Trump’s uniquely dialectical worldview, “Epstein” and “Earhart” are essentially synonyms, connected not by evidence or history, but by the fact that Sharpies are confusing and spelling is optional. To him, the missing financier and the missing aviator are separated only by a Diet Coke and a poorly scribbled margin note.

The files themselves? Maps of the Pacific. Typewritten 1930s memos speculating about atolls. Not a single jet, yacht, or Lolita Express in sight. Trump, however, declared victory: “We’ve solved it, folks. Nobody solved it before me. Earhart—she was very unfairly treated, maybe by Antifa.”

Analysts might call this a mistake. We call it Trump’s purest form of dialectics: a system where history folds in on itself, words swap identities, and truth is just whatever you said last before a rally. Epstein. Earhart. Tomorrow maybe Eisenhower.

And somewhere in the National Archives, a very tired archivist is wondering how many Sharpie circles away we are from the “Watergate = Waterpark” speech

We’ve officially named the Hyundai Ioniq 6.

Meet Ernie.

Because when you’re gliding down the freeway in an appliance-shaped spaceship that can out-drag an 80’s Ferrari, it feels right to give it a daft name. And “fastest milk float in the west” just fits.

This was the first proper road trip in Ernie. Up until now, the farthest we’d gone was a few hours from home, mostly topping up at familiar chargers. Which got me thinking: did we even need the NACS (Tesla) adapter? For months I carried it around like a lucky rabbit’s foot, plugged it in once to check it worked, and otherwise wondered if it was just an overpriced piece of plastic.

Spoiler: yes, you need it.

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CCS vs. NACS: the plot twist

Here’s what I’ve learned.

• CCS is faster, on paper. I’ve hit speeds over 200kW on Electrify America’s 350kW stations. Watching the numbers climb feels like winning a slot machine pull.

• There’s decent coverage with ChargePoint, EVgo, and other DC fast chargers. But most of these sit in the 50kW zone. Translation: ~35kW real world. Good enough if you’re parked at Trader Joe’s buying frozen dumplings, but painful if you’re just trying to pit-stop and get moving again.

• Freeway pit stops = EA or bust. The 200–350kW posts along I-15 and Walmart supercenters are where the real road-trip speeds happen.

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Reliability roulette

This is where it gets messy.

• Shell Energy? Hit or miss. More often miss.

• Other networks? You absolutely need to check the app. Pro tip: if nobody’s checked in within the last 24 hours, assume that charger is a zombie. Lights on, nobody home.

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Tesla: reliable but slower

The big surprise? Tesla’s chargers work. They may not always be in the nicest parts of town (several felt like the landlord cleared out a homeless camp, dropped in some chargers, and called it a day), but the things just fire up and charge. Every time.

The catch: they’re capped. Ernie only sips around 97kW from Tesla’s 400V Superchargers. Compare that to 200+ on CCS and you feel the drag. Still, in the world of EV road-tripping, reliability counts for more than bragging rights on a graph.

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The fine print on Tesla chargers

• Not all Superchargers are open to non-Tesla cars yet.

• Larger sites may be split into “phases.” Translation: one row works with Ernie, the other row doesn’t. If your stall’s dead, don’t panic—drive across the lot and try the other bank.

• Definitely set yourself up in the Tesla app before you leave. Nothing like fumbling with account setup on the side of the freeway while your family judges you.

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Verdict

No regrets on buying Ernie. The Ioniq 6 is smooth, efficient, and—yes—an actual milk float with attitude.

The Tesla adapter? Essential. Not because it’s the fastest, but because when every other charger’s down and you’re staring at a map full of offline icons, the Teslas are humming away in the background, smug as ever.

And that’s the reality of EV road-tripping right now: it’s less about max kilowatts and more about what actually works.

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👉 Next up: Ernie vs. mountains. How does he handle the uphill battery drain and the downhill regen game? Stay tuned.