Richard Branson vs Elon Musk

6 Jun

aaa both 2


Elon Musk, Richard Branson and Helen (Richard Branson’s trusty aide) sit at a dining room table. They’re having a small dinner party. A fourth unknown yet anticipated guest is slated to arrive shortly.

Branson: Could you pass the gravy? Sorry, not the chicken gravy–the beef one, you know, the thick, slow-moving one…[mumbles] like your space-division.
Musk: Sure, just give me a second, I’ll need to ask Helen to help me get it–[mumbles] sort of like how your space-plane needs help from an actual plane–Helen, could you please pass the gravy?

Helen passes the gravy to Musk who passes it to Branson.

Branson pours the gravy on his plate and takes a spoonful of mashed potatoes.

Branson: Wow. This is actually quite good.
Musk: Yes, I actually made it myself. You know, like how I made Paypal myself. With actual coding and technical skills and know-how and such.

Branson: Hmm. I could’ve sworn I saw, what’s that guy’s name again–from Paypal–oh yes!–Peter Thiel, in the kitchen helping you. It almost seemed like he was doing most of the work. But I suppose somebody needs to take credit for things.

A sharp flutter of laughter from Elon, then a straight face. He looks at his plate.

Musk:Credit? Yes. I hear Virgin Money is doing very well. Smart investment–the loan sharking business.
Branson: Yes, some people need financing to purchase things like, say, one hundred thousand dollar fancy electric cars.

Elon lucks up at Richard, staring with daggers for eyes.

Musk: A reader of the New York Times I see! Well, I have a book recommendation for you: The Cat in the Hat. I think it’s on your level.

Helen: Elon. Richard. Should I get a ruler? Bickering back and forth like school-girls! We’re still waiting on a guest, you know.

Helen is ignored.

Branson: Playing spaceman may be good fun for little kids, but I sold records from the crypt of a church to make my business. You wouldn’t last two minutes in my world, son!
Helen: Jesus Christ, Richard, grow up!
Musk: Yah, well, dressing up as a flight attendant won’t help get your Virgin Galactic in the air.

An icy silence entombs the room. Richard and Elon stare at each other, dead-eyed, locked in that eternal animosity of bitter rivalry. And then the door opens. Jeff Golblum walks through. He waives amicably at Branson, Musk and Helen. But he does not go to the dining room. Rather, he walks calmy, almost glides, to the piano in the adjacent room and sits down. He begins to play.

Because Jazz…uh…Jazz…uh..finds a way. Jazz finds a way.

Fade out to Jurassic Park Theme.


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