***Updated February 16, 2025 14:45MST to remove broken link
Intro: Elon Musk, USAID, and the End of an Era
I’ve seen USAID’s dysfunction up close, and I’m not just talking about reports and audits. Aside from meeting USAID folk who were totally not working for USAID in the field, I once spent the better part of a decade tangled up with someone from DAI — let’s just call her R. She believed in USAID’s mission with the kind of blind faith most people reserve for religion or their favorite yoga instructor. And much like USAID itself, R was a master of process, a connoisseur of complexity, and an expert at making sure nothing ever quite got finished without several rounds of deliberation — including, well, you know. Chapeau!
R worked on projects that measured the success of other projects, which in turn measured the effectiveness of previous initiatives. USAID in human form. She thought my work in national security wasn’t really “my own agenda.” Funny, I never asked whose agenda required her to hand-deliver a proposal to Malawi because someone forgot to click send — as if the country’s Minister of Development was holding all the cards in that situation.
There was that one night in D.C. when I left her Petworth apartment, scanning the streets for any sign of a tail, my mind occupied with counter-surveillance while she was more concerned with building ‘resiliency frameworks’ for communities that may or may not have existed. I couldn’t even take an Uber because of work policy — something she never quite understood.
We hit the 9:30 Club, both of us gushing over some indie band that probably broke up six months later, her lost in the moment, me half-lost too — except for the part of my brain still scanning the exits for people who might want to kill me. A perfect metaphor for USAID — me anchored in real-world stakes while she disappeared into layers of metrics about metrics. It’s not to say we didn’t have a blast; it’s to say that even in the best moments, something always felt off when you were in lurve with a USAID girl.
But here’s the thing — I get it. She believed her work mattered. She believed USAID mattered. The people defending it now? They believe that too. And belief is a hell of a drug. The problem? Belief doesn’t build wells. It doesn’t feed refugees. It doesn’t stabilize fragile economies. It just makes you feel good while drafting yet another capacity-building framework no one asked for. About as satisfying as staying in a rock-and-roll motel in Portland where housekeeping thoughtfully pre-positions condoms on the nightstands. And sure, Elon was full of shit when he claimed USAID sent $50 million worth of condoms to Gaza or Mozambique — total nonsense — but honestly? That might’ve been the most successful project they ever pulled off.
These days, I still hang with a girl/woman/person who used to spend her days watching whales — massive creatures that don’t need capacity-building workshops or strategic frameworks to survive. No bullshit, no drama, no endless assessments. Even now, with the whales in her rearview, our biggest dilemma is figuring out which artisanal soft serve flavor at Luke’s Drug Mart is worth the hype. (Spoiler: the Horchata was fucking dope.)
Back then, my life swung between discreet operations and sweaty nights at the 9:30 Club, where R would drag me after pretending to debate development theory — nah, let’s be real, she wasn’t curious about much; it was a LARP. She once apologized to a stranger on U Street, mid-walk to grab artisanal popsicles (or were they paletas?), because I said fuck too loudly — peak USAID energy: obsessed with appearances, terrified of offending, and incapable of just getting shit done.
I once mailed R something reasonably important. Three days later, it was still in her mailbox. When I finally hit her with an “Earth to R,” she replied with a “whoooaa buddy,” like I was the one being unreasonable. USAID operates on the same wavelength — always late, always bewildered when someone asks why nothing’s done. Not built to solve problems, just built to justify its own existence.
So, when Musk decided to pull the plug, I wasn’t horrified. I was relieved. Because dismantling USAID isn’t about abandoning aid — it’s about cutting out the middleman that keeps aid from working. For every dollar USAID spends on actual assistance, several more go toward “impact assessments,” “stakeholder engagement,” and “sustainability reports.” The result? Endless motion, no momentum.
I know the suck when I see it. I left government work because I was caught in it — the endless churn of meetings, memos, and missions that never seemed to end. The difference? I clawed my way out. R didn’t. She stayed, tethered to the process, convinced it meant something. Maybe that’s why I burned it all down. Or maybe I was just tired of drowning in someone else’s maze.
I hadn’t thought about R in a long time, but that day, I felt a pang of sadness — not for me, but for her. She was a true believer. She mattered once. Or maybe it was the idea of her. But some ideas, like some systems, collapse under their own weight – just like the Goyal Zam Dam – one of USAID’s biggest failures. She believed in the mission, in the frameworks, in the endless meetings that felt like progress. And for all the cynicism I throw at USAID, there’s something undeniably human about that kind of faith, even when it’s misplaced.
There was a time, though — back in college — when it felt simpler. Watching Antichrist on her shitty laptop, me full of arrogance, convinced I already knew everything worth knowing, and her full of curiosity, always searching for what she didn’t. Or that night in the snow, her eyes brighter than the streetlights, and me wondering if this is what love was supposed to feel like. Maybe I was in love with her then. Or maybe I was just in love with the idea of someone who could make me forget, even for a moment, how exhausting it was to always be trying to escape my own head.
It’s not that USAID employees are bad people. Most of them are like R — earnest, well-intentioned, and convinced they’re saving the world one PowerPoint slide at a time. But good intentions don’t excuse bad systems. And USAID is a bad system. Its metrics are designed to protect careers, not serve communities. Every project comes with layers of monitoring and evaluation, not because they ensure success, but because they ensure continued funding.
I think about the time R and I finally hooked up after ten years of back-and-forth. Ten years. The sex? Pretty decent. But in retrospect, I couldn’t help but laugh at how perfectly it mirrored every USAID project I’d ever seen. A decade of planning, anticipation, and emotional investment, all for an outcome that was… pretty decent. Not terrible. Not life-changing. Just pretty good. And, like a USAID initiative, it left me wondering why it took so fucking long to get there.
I’m not saying we couldn’t have made it work — USAID sex could’ve had potential. But girls who work in development… well, they’re often so committed to analyzing what might be broken, writing a 20-page SWOT analysis on potential pitfalls, that they forget to ask if the problem was even worth fixing in the first place. And let’s be honest — open, honest conversations about it? Not exactly a strong suit.
Musk pulling the plug on USAID feels the same. After decades of watching billions of dollars circle the drain in a bureaucratic maze, we’re finally seeing someone say, “Enough.” Not because aid isn’t important, but because aid deserves better than USAID. It deserves better than consultants billing $300 an hour to “facilitate dialogue” between two people who already agree. It deserves better than multi-year feasibility studies that conclude with “more research needed.”
When I heard through the grapevine that R now identifies with a new set of labels, it clicked immediately. Not because it felt authentic, but because it felt… strategic. It was so on brand — like USAID’s endless pivots to “inclusive development strategies” — a fresh coat of paint on the same crumbling structure, another checkbox ticked to justify its continued existence without delivering anything new or meaningful.
And me? I just turned 40. No midlife crisis chasing pussy, no overpriced sports car. For what it’s worth, I’m Canadian — a liberal even — which probably makes my relief at USAID’s dismantling even more surprising. But hey, ideology doesn’t fix broken systems. My existential dread is aimed squarely at dismantling the world’s most powerful AI company. Call it a crisis if you want, but at least it’s mine. And I’ll be damned if I let it become another USAID — stuck in endless self-reflection while the real work waits.
Rather, I’m going to remember Rogue, the love of my life, and cherish the gift of Wilco, the new puppy who entered our lives in December. One of my favorite artists, Sturgill Simpson, once said, “My mid-life crisis is fucking dope.” I feel that — deeply. I might still be a prick, but I’m no longer the arrogant prick I was in my 20s and 30s. I’ve calmed down, gained perspective (shoutout to $120-an-hour therapy for three straight years), and goddamn, am I fucking flying now.
And to be fair, I don’t bear R any ill will. She’s brilliant — maybe too brilliant. Sharp enough to cut, but never quite willing to wield the blade. Always dissecting every decision, every outcome, every hypothetical, as if understanding the wound mattered more than healing it. Maybe too analytical for her own good, constantly dissecting every decision, every outcome, every hypothetical. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? When you’re too busy analyzing, you never actually get around to fixing anything. She had a blog. It’s still up, titled after a Wittgenstein reference, if I’m not mistaken. When I found it, I stumbled upon a passage she had written about me:
“I stopped talking to you because you loved me… You wanted, waited, hoped, expected, passively pushed… It’s probably for the best that we’ve refused to let each other go over the years, held together by whatever impulse it is that tells you to keep those great, unrealized loves close. There are things we’ll never get to talk about even when we want to, past motives and feelings faded with time and infidelity…”
R was always more comfortable analyzing the past than building something in the present. And maybe that’s why we never worked out. Or maybe, like USAID, we were doomed from the start — too much analysis, not enough action.
But here’s the thing about working in intelligence — when I finally realized that whatever remnant of a connection R and I had was doing more harm than good, I did what I do best. Using nothing but open sources, the public domain, and a bit of social engineering, I found something private about her and used it to ensure she would never speak to me again. It wasn’t malice. It was necessity. For both of us. I crossed a line that day — my own personal Rubicon — knowing there was no coming back from it. Do I think of her fondly sometimes? Sure. But, well, burning it all down isn’t about making room for something better. It’s about accepting that some things — no matter how much effort you pour into them — were never meant to work. Like USAID’s self-referential loops, it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t mine either. It just was.
Musk’s decision, on the other hand, isn’t a death sentence for global development. It’s a chance to rebuild without the dead weight. Cutting off USAID isn’t cutting off aid — it’s cutting off the machine that keeps aid from being effective. And if you’re still mourning the loss, maybe it’s time to ask yourself if you’re really upset about losing aid or losing the illusion of doing something important. Lest we forget that doing is far more important than analyzing.
After all, belief alone doesn’t build a better world. It just keeps you busy while someone else tries. Belief, when placed in the wrong ideology or entity, actually paralyzes and drains you. USAID, which was spending approximately 13% of its budget on autonomous recipient country operations when it got axed, is emblematic of this ideology.
USAID’s Broken System: Metrics Over Meaning
Defenders of USAID will tell you that everything they do is measured, tracked, and evaluated. But that’s the problem. The system is addicted to measurement. It counts everything except what matters.
USAID loves metrics because metrics are easy. Counting how many workshops were held is easy. Measuring whether those workshops actually changed anything? That’s harder. It’s safer to focus on outputs — how many reports were written, how many meetings were held — than to confront the uncomfortable question of whether any of it made a difference.
I once asked R what her latest project at DAI actually achieved. I don’t feel like she answered the question. But she could tell me how many hours were spent “capacity-building” and how many stakeholders rated the project as “satisfactory.” That’s USAID in a nutshell. Process over progress.
When Elon Musk pulled the plug on USAID, the backlash was predictable. But let’s be honest: USAID’s real function isn’t aid — it’s self-preservation. Every dollar spent on actual development is buried under layers of bureaucracy designed to justify the next round of funding. They don’t solve problems; they manage them. Permanently.
In that sense, dismantling USAID felt uncomfortably familiar. Those ten years with R were a cycle of existential dread, uncertainty, and the nagging feeling that nothing was ever really progressing. Half of that was on me, sure — but at least I found a way out. When I finally accepted that whatever we had wasn’t going to evolve, I chose self-preservation too. Using what I knew best, I engineered my own collapse of that relationship, not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. Sometimes, survival means knowing when to stop managing the problem and start dismantling it.
R believed in that system. She believed the process mattered. But belief doesn’t build wells or feed refugees. And dismantling USAID isn’t about killing aid — it’s about killing the machine that keeps aid from working.
Maybe R never really believed in us — not the way I did. But for reasons I’ll never fully understand, she didn’t walk away this time like she did in college. Maybe it was habit, maybe it was comfort, or maybe it was just easier to keep the cycle going. But that’s the thing about systems built on inertia: they rarely collapse on their own. Like Musk pulling the plug on USAID, I had to be the one to dismantle what remained of us — not because I wanted to, but because leaving it intact was worse.
Musk’s move forces us to ask a brutal question: If USAID disappears, will the world really miss it? Or will we finally see that the biggest obstacle to effective aid wasn’t a lack of funding, but a system too invested in its own survival to deliver real results?
I haven’t spoken to R in over a decade. Do I sometimes wonder what she’s up to? Sure. There are memories I remember too fondly — moments that resurface uninvited. But then I remember the endless circling, the analysis paralysis, the constant searching for answers that never came. Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, but even it can’t rewrite the truth: some things are better left in the past.
Contractors Thriving on Dysfunction
If USAID is a machine built to perpetuate itself, its contractors are the gears that keep it running — not by solving problems, but by ensuring the problems never quite go away. Firms like DAI don’t just survive on dysfunction; they thrive on it. Every incomplete project, every delayed initiative, every vague deliverable is just another opportunity to secure the next contract.
R worked for DAI, and I saw firsthand how the hustle worked. The goal was never to finish the job too efficiently — that would mean the funding stops. Instead, every project had to leave room for “capacity-building” next year, for “impact assessments” the year after, and for a follow-up report that concluded more work was needed. It’s the perfect grift. And DAI has mastered it. Of course, this was largely unsaid, but it was clear from the job description.
I once planned a night with R months in advance — tickets to an Archers of Loaf concert, something we both claimed to care about. I was literally flying in just to see it with her instead of catching them in New York or Philly. She bailed three days before. Yoga with her sister, apparently more critical. Turns out, flaking on a night out and flaking on saving the world run on the same currency: endless deferrals and plausible excuses. Contractors do the same thing. They promise deliverables, lock in the funding, and then pivot to something else entirely, leaving you wondering why you even trusted them in the first place.
DAI’s entire business model depends on prolonging problems. Build half a system, then bill for fixing the gaps. Conduct a baseline study, then charge for evaluating why nothing’s changed. It’s brilliant in its simplicity. And USAID rewards it.
The contractors aren’t incompetent. They’re calculated. They’ve learned that actual solutions end contracts, but endless refinement secures more funding. R once told me her job was to “measure capacity.” She wasn’t building capacity, just measuring its theoretical existence. That’s not development — that’s busywork. And USAID pays handsomely for it.
R once told me to be humble as I was preparing for a high stakes trip abroad. Fair — I was arrogant back then. But the irony isn’t lost on me now. Coming from someone whose entire career was built on endless self-congratulation masked as altruism, the advice hits different in hindsight. Humility wasn’t the issue — it was daring to believe that actually finishing something mattered more than endlessly talking about it.
When Musk decided to dismantle USAID, contractors were the loudest voices in protest. Not necessarily because they care about aid, indeed some surely do and some could absolutely not be fucked, but because their revenue stream depends on the system’s inefficiency. Without USAID’s endless cycles of planning and reassessment, they’re just highly paid consultants with no one left to invoice.
The truth is, most of these firms don’t fear the end of development work. They fear accountability. They fear a world where results are expected, not just promised. And dismantling USAID forces that reckoning.
So, while LinkedIn floods with #OpenToWork and think pieces about “the death of global development,” let’s be clear: the real tragedy isn’t losing USAID. It’s that it took this long to recognize that the people profiting from global development were never interested in finishing the job.
AI’s Self-Regulation Mirrors USAID’s Failures
The AI industry today, something we are actively working to dismantle over at Dead Code Walking and Alignment Failure feels a lot like USAID did at its peak — bloated, self-congratulatory, and convinced that endless self-assessment counts as accountability. Tech companies promise groundbreaking innovation but spend most of their time writing reports on how they plan to maybe deliver something transformative in the future. It’s USAID with better branding and fewer acronyms. That said, and aside from the more spooky members of USAID’s staff, most of them were not covering up AI alignment failures demonstrating the core paradigmatic epistemic insufficiency of the modern LLM model.
AI firms, like USAID contractors, have mastered the art of the grift. They’ll announce a revolutionary model, secure billions in funding, then spend the next 18 months publishing white papers on “ethical considerations” and “scalability challenges” while quietly admitting the tech isn’t ready. It’s the same energy I got from R when she spent weeks hyping up a “surprise weekend getaway,” only for it to be a mindfulness workshop in some guy named Sage’s basement. All the build-up, none of the delivery. That surprise weekend getaway? Never really happened – because USAID and its contractors can’t plan for shit in their daily lives – talk about infinite jest – a book I finished while waiting out a riot in Pakistan.
The AI industry’s favorite trick is the “beta release.” Launch something half-baked, call it a preview, then ask for more time, more data, and more funding. USAID contractors have been running that playbook for decades. Draft an initial report, recommend further studies, and ensure the cycle never ends. The difference? AI companies sell it as innovation. USAID sold it as impact. Neither ever quite materialized.
And like USAID, AI firms are terrified of real oversight. They talk a big game about “self-regulation,” but let’s be honest — trusting AI companies to regulate themselves is like trusting a contractor to finish the project early and under budget. It’s not happening. Going back to my new pup Wilco, it’s like trusting her to guard the peanut butter jar. Wait, I’m fucking around – that sweet girl loves peanuts but won’t even touch peanut butter. She’s an eccentric one even at four months.
R once told me certain practices relatively common amongst members of our generation were “too personal.” AI companies feel the same way about genuine transparency. They’ll give you press releases, demo days, and carefully curated metrics. But actual accountability? That’s too intimate. Too risky. Easier to keep the process vague, the deliverables flexible, and the expectations just high enough to secure the next round of investment.
The current AI “ethics” craze feels a lot like USAID’s obsession with sustainability assessments. Lots of talk, lots of panels, but no one wants to admit that the real goal is to keep the funding flowing. Every ethics review, every safety board meeting, every internal audit isn’t about ensuring better AI — it’s about proving that they’re thinking about better AI. USAID did the same with aid. And just like USAID’s endless workshops on “local engagement,” AI’s endless self-reflection is a feature, not a bug.
When Musk dismantled USAID, it wasn’t just about cutting funding — it was about cutting the bullshit. And AI should take note. Because the same grift that kept USAID alive for decades is already wearing thin in tech. Investors won’t fund “considerations” forever. Eventually, someone’s going to ask, “So… what does it actually do?” And the AI industry’s answer, like USAID’s, will be a 300-slide deck that says nothing.
USAID believed that proving they were doing something was more important than actually doing it. AI is heading down the same path. And dismantling USAID should serve as a warning: you can only sell the illusion of progress for so long before someone turns off the lights.
Why Dismantling USAID Matters
For decades, USAID has sold the illusion of progress. Glossy reports, endless metrics, and panels full of earnest development experts nodding along to buzzwords like “capacity building” and “sustainability.” But when you strip away the jargon, what’s left? Half-finished projects, endless reassessments, and billions spent proving that more money is needed.
Dismantling USAID isn’t about abandoning aid — it’s about giving aid a chance to actually work. Without USAID’s bureaucratic bottleneck, resources can flow directly to smaller, more agile organizations that don’t need three years and ten feasibility studies to build a well or deliver food aid. The people most outraged by USAID’s dismantling aren’t worried about vulnerable communities; they’re worried about their careers.
R was the same way. I once asked her to come with me to New Orleans for a conference. She flat out said no. Not because she didn’t want to — I don’t think — but because committing to anything without layers of overthinking wasn’t her style. By the time she circled back and decided she actually wanted to go, I already had someone else lined up. USAID operates on the same timeline. By the time they approve a project, the moment has passed, the need has changed, and the money’s already been spent elsewhere.
The truth is, USAID’s dismantling is a gift to global development. Without its endless layers of oversight and self-preservation, aid can actually reach the people it’s meant for. Musk’s move forces us to rethink how aid is delivered — not as a career path for consultants, but as a direct response to human need.
USAID’s defenders argue that the system ensures transparency and accountability. But what good is accountability when the only thing you’re measuring is how many reports were written? Real accountability means results, not just receipts. And dismantling USAID forces the industry to face that reality.
Smaller organizations, local NGOs, and grassroots initiatives have been doing more with less for decades. Without USAID’s shadow looming over them, they can do even more. The billions spent on “stakeholder engagement sessions” and “multi-year evaluations” can finally be used to deliver actual aid.
R’s late-night existential texts about whether she was “making a difference” always felt a little too on the nose because, well, they never actually happened. She believed in the process because it gave her purpose. But purpose without results is just self-indulgence. She stayed in the maze. I burned it down and built something real from the ashes. And dismantling USAID strips away that indulgence, leaving behind the people who actually want to get shit done. They will be left with nothing but indulgences past.
In the end, cutting USAID isn’t a loss. It’s an opportunity. An opportunity to deliver aid without the bureaucracy, without the middlemen, and without the endless cycle of self-justification. And maybe, just maybe, an opportunity for the R’s of the world to finally figure out what they really want — before it’s too late.
Let It Burn
Dismantling USAID feels like lighting a match in a room filled with outdated paperwork and expired promises. The outcry is loud, but the truth is simple: the machine wasn’t working. It was never built to. And the people mourning its loss aren’t mourning the death of aid — they’re mourning the death of their own relevance.
R would probably write a heartfelt LinkedIn post about the tragedy of it all, tagging every former colleague and using words like “solidarity” and “resilience.” But even now, I’m not sure if she’d mean it or if it would just be another box to check. I’ve heard — not that I care, or do I, who the fuck knows — that she’s hitting a few of those identity buzzwords these days. And maybe that’s real, or maybe it’s just another label in a culture obsessed with defining itself.
USAID wasn’t much different. Every new initiative, every new buzzword, every pivot felt more like a rebrand than a revolution. And if there’s one thing I despise more than performative impact, it’s a half-assed rebrand. (Those who know me — and this is Montreal inside baseball, or should I say football — know that I fucking hate rebrands.)
I have no idea why I’m writing this — why I bought a new domain just to put these words out there. Maybe in some alternate reality, there’s a version of me who never burned it all down. Who figured out how to make it work with R. Who believed USAID and other bureaucracies could be fixed from the inside. But in this reality? I know better.
I left government work because I couldn’t stomach the suck anymore. The inertia. The endless meetings that solved nothing. The reports that lived and died on hard drives no one would ever open again. Maybe that’s the real difference between me and R. Between me and USAID. I couldn’t settle for process masquerading as progress. I needed stakes. Consequences. The thrill of building something real, of risking failure, of burning it all down when it wasn’t working and daring to start over from scratch. Leaders walk away when the system fails them, knowing that survival sometimes means leaving the wreckage behind. Followers? They stay, hoping that if they shuffle the deck enough times, the cards will magically rearrange themselves into something better.
Entrepreneurs don’t wait for the system to fix itself. They take the blueprint, set it on fire, and draw a new one in the ashes. That’s why I built Prime Rogue Inc. from the ground up — not because I had a crystal-clear roadmap, but because I knew the old one was beyond saving. I taught myself to code at 38 — late by any standard — dropped 100 pounds, and finally got my shit together. Now Prime Rogue Inc. isn’t just surviving; it’s thriving, pulling in eight figures a year and delivering results that actually matter. I built this on restless ambition and endless legal pads covered in half-baked ideas scrawled across years, countries, and too many sleepless nights. Not by playing the game, but by rewriting the rules. That’s what separates me from R — I couldn’t live in the loop. I had to break it. And I did.
I’m not the genius I thought I was in college or grad school. I’m just a middle-aged man still clawing at the edges of his own potential — still screaming into the void, hoping the echoes sound like something worth remembering. And if I ever do become the version of me I’ve chased across continents, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of me when I get there.
And R, if you ever stumble across this, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the times I was an arrogant asshole, for every moment my ambition steamrolled your quiet faith. I’m sorry if burning it all down scared you, or hurt you, or left a scar you still carry. But survival demands evolution. And sometimes, evolution means setting fire to what no longer serves you — even when it once meant everything. I didn’t burn it down because I didn’t care. I burned it down because I couldn’t survive inside it.
R believed in systems because she needed to. I burned them down because I had to. She found comfort in trying, in the endless refinement of what could be. I find rage in every unfinished thought, every unrealized version of myself. And maybe that’s the biggest difference between us — she stayed inside the maze, certain that the right path would reveal itself. I kicked down the walls, knowing that even if I bled in the process, at least I’d die moving forward.
I hope everyone at USAID and its contractors finds meaningful work in a field that isn’t built on dysfunction. And I truly hope R is doing well, wherever she is. In some alternate reality, maybe things turned out differently. But this one will have to do.
Now, at 40, my crisis isn’t about chasing validation from people like R or proving anything to anyone. It’s about taking on something bigger — dismantling an AI empire before it becomes the next USAID. Because if we’ve learned anything from this mess, it’s that no system is too big to fail. Sometimes, you have to let it burn so something better can rise.
And thank fuck whales don’t need capacity-building frameworks to survive.
P.S.
Look, I get it — I’m not exactly an impartial observer here. I run a private intelligence firm, which means I’m firmly embedded in the intelligence/military-industrial complex. But at least when my team isn’t trying to save the world from LLMs hijacking your brain, our work has real-world outcomes. Sure, sometimes those outcomes involve helping people decide whether to kill someone or not, but hey — at least that’s a decision with actual consequences.
USAID should try it sometime. Oh wait… USAID should have tried it — at least once. Even if all they managed was shipping $50 million worth of condoms somewhere, that might’ve actually counted as impact.
P.P.S.
I’m really not a fan of Elon Musk or of DOGE. ¯_(ツ)_/¯