Behold the latest automotive accessory: the Tesla disclaimer sticker. “I bought this before Elon went rogue.” “Still love the car, hate the owner.” “Climate good, tweets bad.” That X poster nailed it—slapping these pathetic placards on your $80,000 EV is like wearing a bumper-to-bumper T-shirt blaring, “I am scared of what the most judgmental people in the world think of me.” Congrats, virtue-signaling Volt owners; you’ve turned your Cybertruck into a rolling apology letter. Let’s roast these spineless sticker slappers who’d rather deface their ride than defend their choices.
You dropped six figures on a silent spaceship, then panic when the CEO tweets a meme. Instead of owning your purchase—“Yeah, I love acceleration and autosteer, deal with it”—you scribble excuses like a kid caught with contraband. “Elon’s not my dad!” Cool story, bro. Nobody asked for your loyalty oath to a stranger. These stickers aren’t clarifications; they’re preemptive groveling to imaginary mobs who’d key your Model Y over a politician’s feed. If your identity is so fragile that a billionaire’s hot take threatens it, maybe park in a garage and rethink life.
Worse are the performative progressives. You virtue-brigade signal “I’m one of the good ones!” while still juicing up at Superchargers built on Musk’s marsshot capital. Hypocrisy level: orbital. Your sticker doesn’t distance you from Elon; it marries you to him. Every passerby now associates your car with his drama. Bold strategy—turning your eco-cred into a tabloid footnote.
Real Tesla fans? They rev past the noise, zero apologies. They bought engineering, not a personality cult. Sticker tribe, your paranoia is the real pollution. Peel off the plea, grip the wheel, and accelerate into adulthood. Or keep broadcasting your bumper fear—the rest of us are too busy driving to read your diary.