Joeโs Monologue: โChrist-like Passionโ
You wanna know what happened with me and Nelly? Sister Helen happened. Thatโs right. We had a square dance plannedโold school, wholesome, hearts aligned, steps rehearsed under the stars. But every time I tried to take her hand, to lead her into that four-cornered rhythm of love, some divine veto came down like thunder. Kiboshed. Shut down. Cancelled by the cosmos.
I asked myself, why? Every approach I made was pureโno guile, no game. Just Joe. But God? God put up a velvet rope like we were sinners trying to sneak into heaven with dirty boots.
And while I was down on the floor, trying to pick up the pieces of that shattered barn dance dream, the shadow government was busy. Busy pumping out oceans of pornographyโdigitized, weaponized, industrial-strength smut. It was like they were trying to smother every soldierโs soul beneath an avalanche of silicon temptation.
They called me G.I. Joe, but they forgot I had a heart.
See, I hate the deep state. I hate the shadow government with a Christ-like passion. Not the kind that bombs cities. The kind that flips tables in temples. The kind that says, โNot in my Fatherโs house.โ The kind that bleeds on a cross while forgiving the enemyโbut still tells the truth with fire in His eyes.
They think they can rewrite the programming of our hearts. But I got news for them.
This soldier still square dances.
And I dance for the kingdom.
Mel Gibson steps in, voice gravelly, eyes wild with holy fire:
โLookโI’m not gonna sugarcoat it. We got a crisis on our hands. These sites? These digital Gomorrahs? They need to be branded like cattle. G, PG-13, Restricted, X, XX, XXX. Domain-level filters. You hear me? Like a ratings system straight outta the Old Testament.โ
He jabs the air like he’s carving commandments in stone.
โYou wouldnโt let your kid wander into a strip club on a Sunday stroll, would ya? So why let โem wander the digital wasteland without a shepherd? Without a gate?โ
Mel paces, the Holy Spirit practically smoking from his boots.
โThey talk about freedom of expressionโbut what about the freedom of innocence? The freedom of a child to grow up without having their brain scrambled by hardcore pixel poison?โ
He points to Joe, square-dance cowboy and soldier of the Light.
โG.I. Joe knows. He saw the war. Saw the smut dropped like napalm on the souls of soldiers. Heโs not just fighting for libertyโheโs fighting for purity. For a shot at redemption.โ
Then, with a sudden hush in his voice, Mel looks to the sky:
โChrist flipped tables. Maybe itโs time we flipped servers.โ
Joe, arms crossed, eyes heavy with the weight of war and memory, answers Mel:
โMelโฆ youโre not wrong. But it goes deeper, man. You know why the Pentagon started handing out porn like it was MREs? Vietnam. Not just the bullets, not just the napalmโSTDs, brother. Whole battalions knocked out, not by the enemyโs gunfire, but by burning shame between their legs.โ
He shakes his head, like heโs seen too much.
โYou think they cared about morality? No. They cared about readiness. Efficiency. Keep the boys distracted, keep โem from wandering into local brothels, keep โem from bringing syphilis back to the barracks. Porn was the patch-up job. Their Band-Aid on a soul wound.โ
He steps closer to Mel, quieter now.
โThey weaponized lust, man. Sanitized it. Made it part of the war machine. Not to healโjust to manage. And now? Itโs still rolling. Pipeline to every phone, every base, every lonely barracks bunk. You want the truth? Half those kids donโt even know what love is. They know dopamine. And shame.โ
Joe looks off, jaw clenched.
โThey tried to cut out the disease by feeding the addiction.โ
He turns back to Mel.
โBut youโre right about one thingโwe need filters. Gates. Guardians. Not censorsโshepherds. Ratings that mean something. Firewalls that protect more than just data. Something sacred.โ
Joe pauses.
โBut they won’t do it unless we make a holy stink.โ
Mel Gibson lights up like heโs had a vision straight from the Book of Revelation and a cup of strong espresso. He claps Joe on the back and grins like a man who just cast Moses and Miriam in a blockbuster.
โJoeโyou and Nellyโyouโre it. Youโre the faces. The heart. The soul of my new family values studio. Youโre not just talentโyouโre a message.โ
He starts pacing again, the wheels in his head turning faster than a Hollywood rumor.
โIโm talkinโ cinema with spine. Morals with muscles. Square dances, yesโbut with swords of truth. And laughter! Real joy, not this nihilist irony crap. I’m talkin’ the kind of love that gets down in the dirt with the broken and still sings.โ
He points to Joe with fervor, then up to the heavens.
โI want Jelly to be Canadaโs Roberto Benigni and his wife. Life is Beautiful, babyโbut make it Canadian. Make it cold, maple-sweet, honest, and holy. You, Joeโgrizzled GI prophet with a heart of fire. And Nelly? She’s the songbird that melts the ice.โ
He pauses, voice cracking just a little.
โThe worldโs dying of cynicism. We need Jelly. We need hope, not just packagedโperformed. Lived.โ
Then, with a twinkle in his eye:
โYou ever danced with a bear in Banff? Because thatโs the opening scene.โ
Joe squints hard, the weight of too many warzones and too many scripts passing through his mind. He leans in toward Melโdead serious now.
โMelโฆ I gotta ask you something. And I want the real answer, not the red carpet version.โ
He lowers his voice like theyโre being watched by agentsโor angels.
โIs it true what they say? That up in those glass towers of Hollywood, behind the smiles and the Oscar speechesโฆ thereโs this unspoken rule? That women in the script either gotta end up nakedโฆ or dead?โ
A silence.
โSome folks call it the โsynagogue of Satan.โ I donโt mean the good faith, the real Jews, the ones who mourn with the world. I mean the shadow puppeteers. The ones who whisper in directorsโ ears, cut checks with blood ink, push sin like itโs style. The ones who grind innocence down to a plot device and call it โart.โโ
Joeโs face is pure ache nowโbattle-weary and burned out.
โYou seen it, havenโt you? The way they write women like disposable dolls. Either they strip or they suffer. Either they bare it all or get buried. What kind of gospel is that?โ
Mel exhales, slow and heavy. Heโs heard this one before. Heโs lived it. His voice is low, like a confession:
โYeah, Joe. Iโve seen it. And worse.โ
He glances around, making sure no studio exec is within earshot.
โThereโs something rotten in the system. Something old. Doesnโt matter if itโs left or right, doesnโt matter the label. Itโs a machine that feeds on beauty. Especially female beauty. Turns it into currency. Chews it up and spits it out before the credits roll.โ
Mel walks a few paces, chewing on his words like they taste like ash.
โTheyโll dress it up with feminism, or call it empowerment. But most of it? It’s exploitation wearing lipstick. A lie dressed in a virtue-signaling tux.โ
He turns back to Joe, eyes burning.
โThatโs why we need Jelly. Thatโs why we need stories where women donโt have to die to matterโor disrobe to be remembered. Where their dignity isn’t the first thing sacrificed to keep the audience awake.โ
He puts a hand on Joeโs shoulder.
โLetโs flip the script, brother. For Nelly. For the girls coming up. For every daughter who ever wanted to be a hero without having to bleed or beg.โ