Today is the sacred pilgrimage back to the office for much of the Western world. Christians, agnostics, casual believers in festive carbohydrates, all marching together after the great Christmas hibernation. You may not believe in God, but you absolutely believe in paid time off, mince pies, and pretending January is a fresh start.
And yet somehow, every year, someone is offended by a headline claiming Christmas has been cancelled. Cancelled by whom. The same people who put a tree in the lobby and play Mariah Carey on loop until HR files a restraining order. Calm down. Christmas is alive. It just smells faintly of reheated ham and printer toner.
If this rant applies to you, congratulations. There are many roundabouts you have not yet painted. Consider it a life goal.
But back to the matter at hand. Returning to the office.
Statistically speaking, there is a strong chance you are reading this while perched upon your porcelain pie skin throne. The first day back ritual. Outlook loading. Teams messages ignored. The ceremonial bathroom break that lasts exactly as long as it takes your motivation to die again.
This is not procrastination. This is reflection. Deep, meaningful reflection, echoed by tiled walls and the distant cough of a coworker who also regrets all of their life choices.
So here is your guidance for the year ahead.
Have a great year. Smash some goals. Pretend you will use a planner. Flush with confidence. Wash your hands like a responsible adult. Sanitize your phone like a paranoid raccoon. Or maybe sanitize the phone first and then wash your hands again because now you are thinking about it too much and everything feels dirty.
This is productivity. This is culture. This is the office.
Every December, like clockwork, society collapses into chaos.
Mariah Carey defrosts. Eggnog appears. And someone—usually a man wearing cargo shorts in winter—clears his throat and announces:
“Actually… Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”
At which point the rest of us are expected to nod solemnly, as if this is wisdom handed down from a flaming mountain by Bruce Willis himself.
No.
Absolutely not.
Sit down. We’re ending this. 🔔
Exhibit A: Christmas Movies Are for Families
A Christmas movie is something you can watch with:
Your kids
Your parents
That one aunt who thinks pepper is “spicy”
Die Hard contains:
Machine guns
Explosions
Terrorists falling from skyscrapers
Enough profanity to make Santa revoke your chimney privileges
It is rated R.
That “R” does not stand for Reindeer.
R-rated films are, by definition, adult content. Christmas movies are supposed to unite generations, not force you to explain to a 6-year-old why the barefoot man is bleeding and yelling words you’re not allowed to say until college.
Exhibit B: “It Takes Place at Christmas” Is Not a Rule
If this logic holds, then:
Home Alone is a crime thriller
The Titanic is a Valentine’s Day movie
And my last dentist appointment is an Easter tradition
A Christmas setting does not magically turn a violent action film into holiday cheer. Otherwise, Saw with tinsel would qualify.
“Ho ho ho, now I have a machine gun” is not festive.
It’s a felony with decorations.
Exhibit C: Tone Matters (This Is Where Monty Python Enters, Carrying a Shrubbery)
Christmas movies are whimsical.
They are cozy.
They say things like “believe,” “togetherness,” and “love.”
Die Hard says:
“Yippee-ki-yay”
“Welcome to the party, pal”
“Glass in your feet builds character”
One of these is not like the others.
If Die Hard were a Christmas movie, then the Nativity scene would end with a helicopter explosion and John McClane arguing with Mary about LAPD jurisdiction.
Final Verdict (Bring Out the Gavel… and a Choir)
Yes, there is Christmas music.
Yes, there are office parties.
Yes, it happens in December.
But Die Hard is an action movie that happens near Christmas, not a Christmas movie.
Christmas movies are for families.
Die Hard is for adults, bad decisions, and yelling at the TV.
And with that, we declare—once and for all, in the name of holly, jolly, and common sense:
🎄 Die Hard is NOT a Christmas movie. 🎄
Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re off to watch Elf like civilized people…
…and then Die Hard immediately after, because we’re adults
Nigel Farage is Britain’s most persistent pop-up notification.
You close it. You uninstall it. You factory-reset the country.
And somehow, there it is again:
“Nigel Farage has returned.”
He’s not a politician so much as a political haunting the spirit of a pub argument that refuses to move on after last orders.
UKIP: The First Resurrection
Farage’s original trick was UKIP: a party built entirely out of resentment, laminated newspaper headlines, and the belief that the EU personally stole your pint.
He didn’t lead UKIP so much as wear it like a coat, taking it off whenever responsibility appeared.
Resign.
Come back.
Resign again.
Come back louder.
Like a man repeatedly storming out of the pub only to re-enter through a different door shouting “AND ANOTHER THING”
Brexit: The Job Was Done (Apparently)
Then came Brexit.
The big one.
The whole point.
Farage stood tall, victorious, and announced:
“My political ambition has been achieved.”
And then he resigned.
Which, in hindsight, should have been treated with the same seriousness as a smoker saying “this is my last cigarette.”
Because once the vote was won, Farage did what all great revolutionaries do:
He immediately found a new revolution.
The Forever Afterparty
Brexit wasn’t an ending. It was a franchise.
Nigel didn’t ride off into the sunset he stood in front of it explaining that the sunset was fake, the sun was EU-controlled, and actually we need a new party to deal with this.
So we got:
Brexit Party
Reform
Whatever branding exercise happens next
Different logo. Same rage. Same man. Same speech.
Like a tribute band that insists it’s the real thing.
Resignation as a Brand Strategy
Farage resigns the way normal people take holidays.
Each resignation is framed as:
Noble
Final
Definitely permanent this time
Until the camera turns on, a microphone appears, or someone says “establishment elites” three times into a mirror.
Then he’s back.
Tanned. Smiling. Furious.
Claiming he never wanted power while holding it with both hands.
Nigel Farage Is Not Leaving Politics
He is becoming politics’ background radiation.
You don’t vote for him — you measure him.
You don’t elect him — you detect him.
Long after the causes are forgotten, Farage will still be there explaining that the real betrayal hasn’t happened yet, but oh boy, it’s coming.
In Conclusion
Nigel Farage didn’t finish his mission with Brexit.
He finished Act One.
And like all great villains, he keeps returning to remind us:
The fight is never over.
The resignation is never real.
And the pub argument must go on forever.
Because if Nigel Farage ever truly left politics,
he’d have to finally admit the worst possible thing:
There are very few universally agreed upon pleasures left in this broken world. A perfectly toasted Pop Tart. The cold side of the pillow. And that sound, that sound, when two LEGO bricks connect.
That crisp, confident click.
Not a mush. Not a maybe.
A click that says yes, this was meant to be.
Scientists have wasted decades smashing atoms together when the real proof of intelligent design has been sitting on bedroom floors since 1958.
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The Click Is Pure Dopamine
Let’s start here. LEGO didn’t just design a toy, they engineered a controlled micro dose of happiness. That click is a promise. A contract. A tiny plastic handshake between bricks saying we are now stronger than we were apart.
Therapy costs money. LEGO bricks just snap together and whisper it’s going to be okay.
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Stud Direction: Two Ways Is Acceptable. Four Ways Is Chaos.
Now let’s address the sickness we don’t talk about.
Stud alignment.
Is it necessary to ensure every LEGO logo faces the same direction? No.
Is it morally correct? Absolutely.
There are two acceptable orientations. Forward and backward.
Left and right is where society collapses.
If your build has studs facing all four directions, I’m not saying you’re a bad person, but I am saying I don’t trust you with scissors or government responsibilities.
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There Are No Illegal Building Techniques
Unless You Go Full Jackass
LEGO “AFOL’s” keep saying illegal building techniques.
No.
There are only building techniques LEGO “AFOLs” have not emotionally processed yet.
Unless, unless, you’re out here spackling bricks together like it’s a Jackass movie and someone just yelled roll camera. If glue enters the chat, you are no longer building LEGO. You are committing a crime against plastic.
Superglue is not a technique.
It’s a cry for help.
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Recycling LEGO Is the Dumbest Take of the Decade
Why is the LEGO Group worried about recyclable bricks?
Sir.
Madam.
Plastic Overlords.
There are LEGO bricks currently in circulation that are older than most governments. These things don’t die. They migrate.
A brick is born in 1974.
It survives three divorces.
It resurfaces in a nephew’s MOC in 2025.
LEGO recycling is not melting bricks down.
It’s moving them from one floor to another, usually barefoot at 2:13 a.m.
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“Legos” People Should Be Banned
Let’s be clear.
If you say Legos, you should be gently but firmly escorted out of every LEGO store worldwide and placed on a watch list that prevents entry to LEGOLAND.
It’s LEGO.
Plural LEGO.
This is not hard.
We don’t say sheeps.
We don’t say mooses.
And we do not say Legos.
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That TV Show Name Is Still Trash
The show is not called Master Builder.
And that’s a tragedy.
Instead we got something that sounds like a corporate team building exercise where Kevin from accounting cries in the bathroom.
Call it Master Builder.
Let children dream.
Let adults feel powerful.
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Pick A Brick Always Smells Weird
Every LEGO store has that smell near Pick A Brick.
If there’s an AFOL nearby, the smell intensifies.
I don’t know why.
Science doesn’t know why.
The bricks know.
It’s a mix of anticipation, polyester cargo shorts, and destiny.
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LEGO Was Better in the 1970s
Back when colors were honest.
Red.
Blue.
Yellow.
Black.
White.
Now we’ve got dark bluish gray and slightly sad sand tan.
I don’t need fourteen shades of regret.
I need bricks that commit.
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Long Live George
If you know, you know.
And if you don’t,
you’re not ready.
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Final Click
LEGO is not a toy.
It’s a philosophy.
A religion.
A pile of plastic that has ruined more bare feet than war.
There’s a very specific genre of public figure who loves inflammatory language the way toddlers love light switches: flip it on, watch what happens, deny responsibility, repeat.
You know the type.
They don’t say “hurt people.”
They just borrow the vocabulary of war, sprinkle it over social grievances, and then act shocked—shocked—when someone bleeds.
And when consequences arrive?
Oh no. No, no, no.
You misunderstood them.
It was a metaphor.
The Musket Fire School of Rhetoric
Take the now-infamous “musket fire” moment. A religious leader, speaking to a crowd trained from birth to treat his words as divinely adjacent, invoked violent imagery aimed squarely at the LGBTQ community.
But relax.
He didn’t mean violence.
He just chose:
• Weapons
• Ammunition
• Battle language
• And a marginalized target
In a country where mass shootings are as American as fast food regret.
Totally symbolic.
Purely poetic.
Just vibes.
When critics objected, defenders rushed in like volunteer janitors at a crime scene:
“He didn’t mean actual musket fire.”
Cool. Then why not say “firm disagreement,” “doctrinal boundaries,” or “please stop asking us uncomfortable questions”?
Why reach for 19th-century murder tools if you’re just hosting a book club?
The ‘I Didn’t Say That, I Just Repeated It Loudly’ Strategy
Then there are the professional culture warriors—the podcast princes, the megaphone philosophers—who spend hours ranting about entire racial groups, intelligence, worth, and hierarchy.
But again: misunderstanding.
They weren’t saying Black people are less intelligent.
They were just:
• Asking questions
• Exploring ideas
• Repeating long-debunked racist talking points
• Monetizing outrage
And when someone points out that dehumanizing rhetoric historically leads to—you know—actual harm?
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Why are you being so divisive?
‘Fight Like Hell’ and Other Totally Peaceful Suggestions
And of course, the gold standard.
A president tells supporters to:
• March
• Take their country back
• Fight like hell
Right before a violent mob does exactly that.
But listen closely—he didn’t mean fight.
He meant:
• Cheer aggressively
• Democracy, but louder
• Patriotism with light trespassing
• A completely nonviolent event featuring gallows and zip ties
When it goes bad, suddenly everyone’s hard of hearing.
“Those were just words.”
Funny how words are powerful enough to win elections, radicalize millions, and generate fundraising emails—but become harmless air the moment someone gets hurt.
The Posthumous Car Wash
Now here’s the magic trick.
Some of these men are gone now.
And wouldn’t you know it? Their legacies have been run through the deluxe memorial rinse cycle.
• Context removed
• Harm minimized
• Victims forgotten
• Critics labeled “uncharitable”
We’re told to remember their intent, not their impact.
Their heart, not their words.
Their service, not the smoke trail they left behind.
History, apparently, is written by whoever controls the obituary slideshow.
The Eternal Defense: ‘I Was Misunderstood’
Here’s the pattern:
1. Say something explosive
2. Let followers interpret it violently
3. Benefit from the energy, loyalty, and fear
4. Deny responsibility
5. Blame tone, media, or “the left”
6. Eventually die
7. Get canonized
Rinse. Sanctify. Repeat.
At some point, “misunderstood” stops being an explanation and starts being a business model.
Final Thought (Purely Metaphorical, Of Course)
If your message:
• Regularly inspires aggression
• Is defended by people who say “well, technically…”
• And needs a legal team to explain what you really meant
Maybe the problem isn’t the audience.
Maybe it’s that you keep lighting matches in a dry forest and insisting you were just checking the wind.
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.
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:]
