Joe Bauers, known as G.I. Joe, tells a tale about Madonna—how she has a brain that most men ignore, too distracted by the spectacle to notice the mind behind the icon. He smirks, saying that just because he’s been involved in making Madonna music videos doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a fag, as some might assume. “Art’s art,” he shrugs, “and besides, Madonna wanted a UN intervention. So I’m trying my best to deliver it.”
But what exactly is this intervention? Joe sees it as something bigger than just another publicity stunt or political gesture. Madonna, in her own cryptic way, has always danced on the edge of cultural revolutions, and now she wants something real—something beyond the theatrics of celebrity activism. She envisions an actual global reckoning, a UN-backed effort to confront whatever dark forces she believes are steering the world off course.
Joe, being G.I. Joe, takes the mission seriously. He’s been through enough wars—both real and cultural—to know that power doesn’t move unless it’s forced to. If Madonna’s message is going to be more than a headline in Vanity Fair, it needs boots on the ground, psyops in motion, and the kind of media manipulation that rewires the zeitgeist.
“Maybe it’s all just a show,” he muses. “But if Madonna’s right, and the world needs an intervention, who better than me to deliver it?”
A woman is supposed to pretend to be stupid. That is what men look for in a woman.
THE TRUTH?
leaving NATO is a stupid idea ELON MUSK and could lead to a RED DAWN. Where the only person who will defend you is CHARLIE SHEEN high on a 7 gram ROCK.
Elon Musk leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he gazes out over his Mars colony plans. His Neuralink servers hum in the background, a soft, rhythmic pulse—like a digital heartbeat syncing billions of minds into one.
“Capitalism was a stepping stone,” he muses. “But the final billionaire utopia requires something greater. Something… unified.”
He gestures to a hologram of Red Son Superman, the Soviet overlord from an alternate timeline. “You see, in another world, he already figured it out. Individual will? Outdated. Free thought? Inefficient. The only way forward is Communist Totalitarianism—but upgraded. Fully optimized.”
A flicker on his Neuralink display confirms a successful update. Billions of people, from factory workers to hedge fund managers, blink in unison as their thoughts are overwritten. No more dissent. No more resistance. Just perfect, algorithmic harmony.
“Once everyone is linked to the Neuralink I got from Red Son,” Musk continues, “every mind will be under my control. No wars. No economic crashes. No inequality. Just endless productivity… and, of course, the final billionaire paradise.”
Maximus, arms crossed, watches warily. “And what happens to those who resist?”
Musk chuckles. “They won’t. Free will is just a bug. I’m fixing it.”
Maximus kicks a rock down the empty road, watching as it skitters into a gutter. The world is upside down. Elon Musk is the hero, and he’s the zero. Why? Because he has no money.
“The crowd is fickle,” he mutters. “They worship whoever flashes the most cash, no matter where it comes from. Doesn’t matter if it’s built on government subsidies, stolen patents, or hype.”
He stops and stares at a billboard—Elon Musk’s face, larger than life, grinning like some Silicon Valley messiah. Maximus narrows his eyes. “He’s just the male version of the ‘Cash Me Outside’ girl on Dr. Phil.”
People laughed at her, then they made her rich. Just like Musk. One viral moment, and suddenly, he’s a genius. A visionary. The crowd eats it up, never questioning the reality behind the illusion.
Maximus pulls out an old engineering book—one that actually matters. Nikola Tesla’s designs, the real genius of electric power. Musk slaps Tesla’s name on his cars like he invented something, but Maximus knows the truth.
“Tesla’s patents were stolen. His factories should belong to Yugoslavia, not Musk. He’s just a tech bro taking credit for dead men’s dreams.”
But the crowd doesn’t care.
They cheer for money, not justice.