Elon Musk’s War on Washington: Regret, Backlash, and the Cost of Reform

Paul Riverbank, 12/10/2025Elon Musk’s fight to cut government waste sparks upheaval, backlash, and personal reckoning in Washington.

DOGE, a Trump-era creation, materialized in the chaotic hours after the president’s second inaugural, promising to bulldoze bureaucracy and, as Musk liked to put it, “bring out the axe.” Republican officials couldn’t praise it enough. Democrats mostly rolled their eyes; some grew openly hostile. Musk always insisted he was on a simple mission: hunt down government waste and kill it at the root. “We were somewhat successful,” he said, his voice stripped of its usual brio. He cited “$100, maybe $200 billion” in stopped “zombie payments” each year. Yet even then, it was obvious this was a defensive stance—a list of bruising skirmishes, not a decisive victory.

If the project itself was controversial, the fallout was messier still. The backlash hit with astonishing speed. One night, a Tesla showroom in Portland woke to find its windows shattered and “BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS” scrawled across the facade. In Palo Alto, protesters brazenly set fire to several cars right outside company headquarters, footage flashing across news feeds that afternoon. Employees found themselves followed home, threatened online. Musk later reflected, a trace of disbelief in his voice: “They wouldn’t have been burning the cars…” The implication lingered. The storm had grown larger than his cost-cutting crusade.

Of course, Washington’s old guard didn’t take well to such aggressive tactics. Programs disappeared overnight; jobs vanished, sometimes a whole division gutted before anyone in Congress could hold a hearing. Legal challenges erupted like clockwork. Musk’s team, undeterred, plowed ahead. Numbers flew around—$2 trillion saved, some cheerleaders insisted. Outside analysts greeted those claims with raised brows, pointing out that many of the hardest blows landed squarely on middle managers and service staff. When critics warned that the axe wasn’t just falling on “fat,” but muscle and bone too, Musk didn’t stick around to argue.

Other wounds were more personal and, perhaps, more lasting. His onetime rapport with President Trump, honorific selfies and all, soured as government subsidies for Tesla and SpaceX entered the chopping line. Their public sparring grew heated until, in classic Trumpian fashion, it thawed over a glitzy White House steak dinner. “I like Elon a lot,” the president later chuckled. Musk, plainly less effusive, called Trump “naturally funny”—a remark that seemed somehow both complimentary and cryptic.

By the tail end of their conversation, Musk’s tone shifted. He spoke not of balance sheets, but of persistent unease. The assassination of activist Charlie Kirk had rattled the country—and Musk himself. “Life is on a hardcore mode,” he mused softly, more philosopher than CEO. “You make one mistake, and you’re dead.” Power, it appeared, had lost much of its appeal.

Was DOGE a triumph, a warning sign, or just another Washington detour? “A little bit successful,” Musk conceded. In truth, the answer likely depends on where one stood when the cuts came down. For Musk, the lesson’s broad strokes were clear: public service, even with noble intent, extracts a price that can’t be measured in money.

In the end, the Capitol’s routines resumed their churn. Musk retreated west, back into the world of rockets, electric vehicles, and restless innovation. Whether DOGE’s experiment is fated to be repeated by another ambitious outsider remains to be seen. What’s certain is that change in Washington, as Musk discovered, is rarely just about shifting numbers on a spreadsheet—but about bracing for the unforeseen blowback that follows when the axe finally falls.

It’s hard to say exactly when Elon Musk realized his tenure in Washington was more ordeal than opportunity. Maybe it was the mornings he’d arrive at a cluttered DOGE office, eyelids heavy, greeted by a wall of printouts and a fresh round of cable news scorn. Or maybe—judging by his recent chat with Katie Miller—it only really landed afterward. Asked whether he’d ever sign up to run the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) again, Musk didn’t hesitate long. “I mean, no, I don’t think so,” he offered, his words hanging in the air, somewhere between regret and relief.DOGE, a Trump-era creation, materialized in the chaotic hours after the president’s second inaugural, promising to bulldoze bureaucracy and, as Musk liked to put it, “bring out the axe.” Republican officials couldn’t praise it enough. Democrats mostly rolled their eyes; some grew openly hostile. Musk always insisted he was on a simple mission: hunt down government waste and kill it at the root. “We were somewhat successful,” he said, his voice stripped of its usual brio. He cited “$100, maybe $200 billion” in stopped “zombie payments” each year. Yet even then, it was obvious this was a defensive stance—a list of bruising skirmishes, not a decisive victory.If the project itself was controversial, the fallout was messier still. The backlash hit with astonishing speed. One night, a Tesla showroom in Portland woke to find its windows shattered and “BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS” scrawled across the facade. In Palo Alto, protesters brazenly set fire to several cars right outside company headquarters, footage flashing across news feeds that afternoon. Employees found themselves followed home, threatened online. Musk later reflected, a trace of disbelief in his voice: “They wouldn’t have been burning the cars…” The implication lingered. The storm had grown larger than his cost-cutting crusade.Of course, Washington’s old guard didn’t take well to such aggressive tactics. Programs disappeared overnight; jobs vanished, sometimes a whole division gutted before anyone in Congress could hold a hearing. Legal challenges erupted like clockwork. Musk’s team, undeterred, plowed ahead. Numbers flew around—$2 trillion saved, some cheerleaders insisted. Outside analysts greeted those claims with raised brows, pointing out that many of the hardest blows landed squarely on middle managers and service staff. When critics warned that the axe wasn’t just falling on “fat,” but muscle and bone too, Musk didn’t stick around to argue.Other wounds were more personal and, perhaps, more lasting. His onetime rapport with President Trump, honorific selfies and all, soured as government subsidies for Tesla and SpaceX entered the chopping line. Their public sparring grew heated until, in classic Trumpian fashion, it thawed over a glitzy White House steak dinner. “I like Elon a lot,” the president later chuckled. Musk, plainly less effusive, called Trump “naturally funny”—a remark that seemed somehow both complimentary and cryptic.By the tail end of their conversation, Musk’s tone shifted. He spoke not of balance sheets, but of persistent unease. The assassination of activist Charlie Kirk had rattled the country—and Musk himself. “Life is on a hardcore mode,” he mused softly, more philosopher than CEO. “You make one mistake, and you’re dead.” Power, it appeared, had lost much of its appeal.Was DOGE a triumph, a warning sign, or just another Washington detour? “A little bit successful,” Musk conceded. In truth, the answer likely depends on where one stood when the cuts came down. For Musk, the lesson’s broad strokes were clear: public service, even with noble intent, extracts a price that can’t be measured in money.In the end, the Capitol’s routines resumed their churn. Musk retreated west, back into the world of rockets, electric vehicles, and restless innovation. Whether DOGE’s experiment is fated to be repeated by another ambitious outsider remains to be seen. What’s certain is that change in Washington, as Musk discovered, is rarely just about shifting numbers on a spreadsheet—but about bracing for the unforeseen blowback that follows when the axe finally falls.