Author: Gigolo Joe

Hey Joe, what ya know?
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We Eat For You

Joe: Nelly, I don’t ACT for the Assertive Care Team. I’ve seen this act before. It’s the same stage, the same applause, the same banquet halls. People giving each other awards while calling it progress.

Nelly: That’s a harsh judgment.

Joe: Maybe. But sometimes the West looks like a first-world clown show—endless ceremonies, photo ops, and self-congratulation—while millions of people elsewhere are still forced to drink from polluted rivers, go hungry, or live without basic necessities. We celebrate ourselves before we’ve solved the problems that should matter most.

Nelly: We do try to recognize people making a difference. There are programs like Anderson Cooper’s HERO awards that highlight acts of service.

Joe: I’m glad real heroes get recognized. But I haven’t received any awards from Anderson Cooper, and that’s not what motivates me anyway. I’d rather see fewer galas and more wells being dug, more homes being built, more families being fed. Recognition is nice, but results are better.

Nelly: And what’s driving your frustration?

Joe: A culture that too often mistakes excess for success. The whole “Imelda Marcos’s thousand pairs of shoes” mindset has become a symbol of endless consumption. Build bigger, buy more, throw more away, then congratulate ourselves for recycling a fraction of it. That kind of civilization isn’t sustainable—not environmentally, not economically, and not spiritually.

Nelly: So what deserves applause?

Joe: Clean water. Homes for the homeless. Food for the hungry. Honest work. Communities that restore what they’ve taken instead of chasing endless excess. When those things become the headline, then hand out the awards.

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Single Father Joe

Joe sat quietly beside Nelly beneath the city lights, his voice low and heavy like an old radio playing after midnight. He held a photograph no one else could understand — a strange child with silver eyes and a crooked smile.

“My son’s name is Marciano,” Joe said. “He came from the Andromeda galaxy with nothing. No mother. No father. Just a ship drifting through the dark like Moses in the reeds.”

Nelly looked at him carefully. “And you raised him alone?”

Joe nodded.

“It’s hard enough being a single father on Earth. Harder when the world fears what it doesn’t understand. Mankind always talks about compassion until the stranger arrives at the door.”

He stared upward at the stars.

“They still destroy the alien, the orphan, the outsider. Same story since the ancient days. Like the songs of King David in Psalm 94 — the innocent crushed by the proud, the forgotten crying out while the powerful laugh.”

Marciano wandered nearby, collecting broken electronics from an alleyway and turning them into tiny glowing sculptures. The boy could repair machines nobody else understood, yet people crossed the street when they saw him.

Joe sighed.

“They call him strange because he isn’t like them. But every civilization says that before it repeats the same mistake.”

Nelly placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder.

“You gave him a home,” she said softly. “That matters.”

Joe smiled faintly.

“Maybe that’s the test for every species in the universe. Not technology. Not war. Whether you protect the orphan when nobody is watching.”

Joe looked back toward Marciano, whose eyes reflected the stars like mirrors from another world.

“He isn’t just my son,” Joe said quietly. “Marciano is an ambassador. His people are watching us through him. They want to know if mankind is ready to find its place among the stars or if we’re still trapped by fear and tribal thinking. Every act of kindness toward him is like a message sent into the cosmos. Every act of cruelty too. Maybe first contact doesn’t begin with governments or rockets. Maybe it begins with whether humanity can welcome one abandoned child from another galaxy.”

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Fated: 1 Love

Joe leaned against the railing, watching the city lights flicker on, and spoke more softly than usual.

“Nelly… look around us. Our lives aren’t just one story, one tribe. We’ve got friends from everywhere—black, white, brown… Muslim, Christian, Jewish. Real people, real lives. That’s the truth of it.”

Nelly crossed her arms, but she was listening.

Joe continued, “If we’re gonna stand up there and say vows, it can’t just be for show. It’s gotta mean something. All of them should be there. Not just the polished ones either—the ones doing well. I mean everyone.”

“Everyone?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Even the people most folks pretend not to see. The guys out in Surrey, sleeping rough. The ones people walk past like they don’t exist. I gave one guy a dollar once—American bill. He laughed and called it the ‘mark of the beast.’ But you know what? He still smiled. Still human.”

He paused, then added with a sharper edge, “And honestly? No billionaires. Not even Mark Zuckerberg—unless they’re ready to actually share what they’ve got. Not for show, not for headlines. I mean really help the people at the bottom… the ones grinding, the ones forgotten, everywhere.”

Nelly raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty strict guest list.”

“It’s a real one,” Joe said. “This isn’t about status. It’s about the salt of the earth—people who carry the weight and don’t get the spotlight.”

She looked out at the skyline, thinking it over.

“That kind of wedding,” she said slowly, “people won’t forget.”

Joe nodded. “Good. Maybe they’ll remember why it matters too.”

Nelly Fan
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