We’ve all been there. One day, you’re driving to the grocery store, minding your own business, and then you see it coming from the opposite end of the street. At first, you panic and wonder if it’s the off-screen entity from Bird Box that drives people to death if looked at. But then, just as quickly, you feel it: a deep, primal rage. The future isn’t just coming for us; it’s coming in the shape of a post-apocalyptic wedge that was designed by someone who still owns the Entourage movie on Blu-ray. It’s the Cybertruck, and it’s here to ruin your whole day.
That’s why we’re here.
Welcome to Cybertruck Anger Management, a weekly gathering of like-minded individuals bounded by our mutual hatred for the SI unit of eyesores. We don’t really know why we hate it. In fact, it might not even make sense to hate it this much. It’s just a car, after all. But that’s the thing. We’ve tried to be reasonable. We’ve tried self-talk: “It’s just another electric vehicle, it’s not that deep!” Some of us have even tried to appreciate it as a piece of industrial design… until we remember to practice self-respect. But the more we try to rationalize it, the more we’re convinced it’s a harbinger of the end times—a glimpse of what’s to come, where design choices are dictated by one man’s insatiable need to flagrantly display his wealth, with no consideration for basic human needs, taste, or the parameters of the average parking space.
The Cybertruck is a statement—but about what, exactly? That our lives will be governed by people who believe aggressively angular shapes are inherently futuristic but don’t quite understand what one unsettling curve can do to the human psyche? That the next great leap in automotive technology will be inspired by the pointy “S” we all used to draw in high school? Can’t we just bring back the Motorola Razr and call it a day? All we know right now is that, as a society, we will have to work through it—so why not start with Cybertruck Anger Management, a safe space to process it all without judgment?
It’s not just about its appearance—though we’re pretty sure that’s the sole reason extraterrestrial life hasn’t contacted or visited us. It’s the idea behind it. Every inch of that metallic monstrosity screams, “I’m here to prove a point!” A point we didn’t ask for, but one we’re now forced to listen to at full volume. But maybe the strangest thing of all is that we don’t even want to like it. If there were a pill that could turn our visceral rage into unfiltered adoration, would we take it? Or would our nuclear-grade indignation metabolize it so fast we’d be right back to where we started—furious and confused? Maybe if it were another ugly car in a sea of ugly cars, we’d be able to dismiss it. And yet, the Cybertruck stirs something in us. Something deep-seated. Something we can’t quite grasp. It’s like a horror movie where the family buys a house clearly marked as a death trap—complete with an ambivalent realtor who barely bothers to warn them—and then wonders why they’re fighting for their lives as the house turns out to be a demonic nexus. Make it make sense!
The Cybertruck has become a cultural touchstone of bad design, a symbol of our collective missteps, a reminder that the future is already beyond saving. It’s like watching your high school friend—the one with the cool, intellectual vibe who sometimes dyed their hair fun colors and seemed destined for greatness—only to find out they’re now fully entrenched in the world of cryptocurrency.
But here, we can be honest. We can talk about how it makes us involuntarily twitch. We can laugh, cry, and sigh collectively in the knowledge that, at some point in the future, we will be stuck behind one on the highway, silently wishing for a very small, concentrated sinkhole to devour one of us—we don’t particularly care which one at this point.
So welcome. There’s no shame here; just people like you who can’t ignore the volcano of fury that erupts in us the moment we see one. The people who are tired of pretending that we aren’t fighting the urge to follow the driver to their destination, then pull up next to them and slowly roll our windows down, as the siren sound effect from Kill Bill blares and the flashing red lights close in on our eyes—like we’re about to cross them off our list. But we’re not going down without a fight. We’ll keep supporting each other, one bulging forehead vein at a time.
If you’d like to stick around, remember: The first step is admitting it. The second is realizing you’re not alone in seething with the kind of rage that clouds your judgment. The third is redacted for legal reasons.