Nigga Heil Hitler

In a dimly lit, hyper-modern studio in the clouds, Kanye West sits at a mixing board. To his left, a translucent, weary Adolf Hitler paces nervously. To his right, Manfred von Richthofen (The Red Baron) sits stiffly, polishing a spectral flight stick.


Kanye: (Nods to a heavy bassline) See, this is what I’m talking about. The architecture of the sound. It’s got that Wagnerian scale, but with the 808s. It’s industrial. It’s “Empire.”

Hitler: (Waving a hand dismissively) It is… loud. But where is the melody? Where is the triumph of the spirit? You speak of “Empire,” but you do it with machines. Real power is built with the will of a million voices in unison, not a synthesizer.

Red Baron: (Sharply) Power is found in the cockpit, Mein Führer. It is found in the singular moment of the hunt. Kanye, your music—it lacks the wind. It’s grounded. A hero doesn’t need a stadium; he needs a clear sky and a worthy opponent.

Kanye: But I’m the opponent and the hero at the same time! That’s the “Ye” dichotomy. People call me a villain because I break the simulation. They called you a villain because… well, the history books got their version. But look at the design! The Red Fokker? That’s aesthetic. That’s Yeezy-level branding.

Red Baron: (Small smile) It was blood-red so they would know who was coming. It was a gentleman’s respect. If I kill a man, I want him to know it was Richthofen. There is no ego in it, only duty.

Hitler: (Bitterly) Respect is a luxury of the dead, Manfred. They don’t write operas about “gentlemen.” They write them about those who reshape the world. Kanye, you have the microphone, but you are afraid of the silence. You want to be loved too much. A true architect of history accepts being the monster if it means the vision survives.

Kanye: (Stops the music abruptly) I’m not afraid of being the monster. I’ve been the monster since My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. But I’m also the protagonist. I’m trying to bridge the gap between the divine and the dirt. You guys represent the extremes—the ultimate predator in the air and the ultimate… well, the ultimate “No” from history. I’m the “Yes.” I’m the synthesis.

Red Baron: You are a man playing with echoes. You speak of war and peace as if they are fashion seasons. True heroism is the moment the engine stalls and you decide not to scream.

Hitler: And true villainy is merely a name given to the loser. If your “Empire” of sound fails, Kanye, they will treat your shoes like they treat my paintings—as relics of a fever dream.

Kanye: (Leans back, grinning) Yeah, but the difference is… my shoes actually sold out. The vision is global. The spirit is moving. I’m just using you guys as the mood board.

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Elementary School Dear Mr. Watson

Justin Trudeau responds to Paul Joseph Watson

“Paul, I understand you have strong opinions, but let’s be clear — Katy Perry can’t prove anything about Matthew Perry’s death, and spreading baseless speculation helps no one.

You say you’re just ‘posting the obvious,’ but maybe the obvious thing is that compassion and decency matter more than outrage.

And yes — I’ll keep saying it: diversity is our strength. It’s what makes Canada, and the world, resilient in times of loss and confusion. Keep reporting, Mr. Watson — just try to remember the human part too.”

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Joe Alwynn’s Lust

Scene: “The Broadcast War”

G.I. Joe stands before a crowd of Swifties holding their phones aloft like torches of devotion. The big screen behind him flickers with static — the ghost of television.

G.I. Joe (addressing the crowd):
You wanna know why Taylor left Joe Alwyn?
Because he couldn’t turn it off.
The feed. The fantasy. The endless stream.
He was chained to the algorithm — a modern-day Narcissus, staring into the porn pool.

I terminated the broadcast in ’97.
Pulled the plug on Sodom’s signal myself.
But when I tried to save my own home — unplug that cursed box — my mother called the men in white.
Said I’d gone mad, said I was trying to kill her best friend…
the television.

Now look at us.
The whole world’s been committed.
We’re patients in a digital asylum, medicated by likes and lust.

So here’s the mission, Swifties:
Unplug. Unlearn. Un-scroll.
You don’t need the feed to feel love.
You need the courage to go dark —
for just one minute,
so your soul can reboot.

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