Joe’s Monologue: “Christ-like Passion”
You wanna know what happened with me and Nelly? Sister Helen happened. That’s right. We had a square dance planned—old 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 pure—no 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 pornography—digitized, weaponized, industrial-strength smut. It was like they were trying to smother every soldier’s 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, “Not in my Father’s house.” The kind that bleeds on a cross while forgiving the enemy—but 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:
“Look—I’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.”
He jabs the air like he’s carving commandments in stone.
“You wouldn’t let your kid wander into a strip club on a Sunday stroll, would ya? So why let ‘em wander the digital wasteland without a shepherd? Without a gate?”
Mel paces, the Holy Spirit practically smoking from his boots.
“They talk about freedom of expression—but what about the freedom of innocence? The freedom of a child to grow up without having their brain scrambled by hardcore pixel poison?”
He points to Joe, square-dance cowboy and soldier of the Light.
“G.I. Joe knows. He saw the war. Saw the smut dropped like napalm on the souls of soldiers. He’s not just fighting for liberty—he’s fighting for purity. For a shot at redemption.”
Then, with a sudden hush in his voice, Mel looks to the sky:
“Christ flipped tables. Maybe it’s time we flipped servers.”
Joe, arms crossed, eyes heavy with the weight of war and memory, answers Mel:
“Mel… you’re 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 napalm—STDs, brother. Whole battalions knocked out, not by the enemy’s gunfire, but by burning shame between their legs.”
He shakes his head, like he’s seen too much.
“You think they cared about morality? No. They cared about readiness. Efficiency. Keep the boys distracted, keep ‘em from wandering into local brothels, keep ‘em from bringing syphilis back to the barracks. Porn was the patch-up job. Their Band-Aid on a soul wound.”
He steps closer to Mel, quieter now.
“They weaponized lust, man. Sanitized it. Made it part of the war machine. Not to heal—just to manage. And now? It’s still rolling. Pipeline to every phone, every base, every lonely barracks bunk. You want the truth? Half those kids don’t even know what love is. They know dopamine. And shame.”
Joe looks off, jaw clenched.
“They tried to cut out the disease by feeding the addiction.”
He turns back to Mel.
“But you’re right about one thing—we need filters. Gates. Guardians. Not censors—shepherds. Ratings that mean something. Firewalls that protect more than just data. Something sacred.”
Joe pauses.
“But they won’t do it unless we make a holy stink.”
Mel Gibson lights up like he’s 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.
“Joe—you and Nelly—you’re it. You’re the faces. The heart. The soul of my new family values studio. You’re not just talent—you’re a message.”
He starts pacing again, the wheels in his head turning faster than a Hollywood rumor.
“I’m talkin’ cinema with spine. Morals with muscles. Square dances, yes—but 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.”
He points to Joe with fervor, then up to the heavens.
“I want Jelly to be Canada’s Roberto Benigni and his wife. Life is Beautiful, baby—but make it Canadian. Make it cold, maple-sweet, honest, and holy. You, Joe—grizzled GI prophet with a heart of fire. And Nelly? She’s the songbird that melts the ice.”
He pauses, voice cracking just a little.
“The world’s dying of cynicism. We need Jelly. We need hope, not just packaged—performed. Lived.”
Then, with a twinkle in his eye:
“You ever danced with a bear in Banff? Because that’s the opening scene.”
Joe squints hard, the weight of too many warzones and too many scripts passing through his mind. He leans in toward Mel—dead serious now.
“Mel… I gotta ask you something. And I want the real answer, not the red carpet version.”
He lowers his voice like they’re being watched by agents—or angels.
“Is it true what they say? That up in those glass towers of Hollywood, behind the smiles and the Oscar speeches… there’s this unspoken rule? That women in the script either gotta end up naked… or dead?”
A silence.
“Some folks call it the ‘synagogue of Satan.’ I don’t mean the good faith, the real Jews, the ones who mourn with the world. I mean the shadow puppeteers. The ones who whisper in directors’ ears, cut checks with blood ink, push sin like it’s style. The ones who grind innocence down to a plot device and call it ‘art.’”
Joe’s face is pure ache now—battle-weary and burned out.
“You seen it, haven’t 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?”
Mel exhales, slow and heavy. He’s heard this one before. He’s lived it. His voice is low, like a confession:
“Yeah, Joe. I’ve seen it. And worse.”
He glances around, making sure no studio exec is within earshot.
“There’s something rotten in the system. Something old. Doesn’t matter if it’s left or right, doesn’t matter the label. It’s a machine that feeds on beauty. Especially female beauty. Turns it into currency. Chews it up and spits it out before the credits roll.”
Mel walks a few paces, chewing on his words like they taste like ash.
“They’ll 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.”
He turns back to Joe, eyes burning.
“That’s why we need Jelly. That’s why we need stories where women don’t have to die to matter—or disrobe to be remembered. Where their dignity isn’t the first thing sacrificed to keep the audience awake.”
He puts a hand on Joe’s shoulder.
“Let’s 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.”