Selena Gomez: Paid Programming

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Christus Rex talks to Jeffrey Epstein and Benny Blanco about Selena Gomez MK – Ultra programming. Christ asks Benny why he hates Al Pacino and if Selena Gomez is going to wash his feet with her tears for a cloned kidney?

Benny Blanco then love bombs Selena Gomez until she washes his feet with her tears. Blanco proclaims himself the Jewish messiah afterwards.

You gotta love PAID PROGRAMMING!!!

Scene: A ridiculously over-the-top candlelit studio filled with roses, stuffed animals, and heart-shaped balloons. Selena walks in, confused. Benny and Goofy are waiting like they rehearsed this moment all day.

Selena:
Why does this place look like Valentine’s Day exploded?

Benny Blanco:
Selena… Selena… Selena! The moon is jealous of you. The stars? They’re just your backup dancers. I wrote twelve songs about your smile before breakfast!

Goofy:
Gawrsh, Selena! Hyuck! I wrote ya a poem on a pizza box!

Selena:
You wrote… a poem?

Goofy (reading dramatically):
“Roses are red,
Hot dogs are yummy,
If love were spaghetti,
You’d fill up my tummy! Hyuck!”

Selena:
That… is the strangest thing anyone has ever said to me.

Benny Blanco:
No, no, wait! That’s just the beginning. I bought you 10,000 roses. Also a llama. The llama loves you too.

Selena:
There’s a llama outside?

Goofy:
Yep! Named him Selenny! Hyuck!

Selena:
You named a llama after me?

Benny Blanco (dramatically):
Selena, you don’t understand. Every melody in the universe bends toward you. The sun rises because it knows you might be awake.

Goofy:
And when you blink, angels get promoted! Hyuck!

Selena:
You two practiced this, didn’t you?

Benny Blanco:
Of course we did! Because appreciation must be rehearsed! Here, I made a slideshow of 400 reasons why you’re perfect.

Selena:
Four hundred?!

Goofy:
Number one: ya got nice hair!
Number two: ya got… also nice hair!
Number three: ya got… different nice hair!

Selena:
This is getting weird.

Benny Blanco (dropping to one knee for no clear reason):
Selena, you are the greatest artist, the brightest star, the most legendary—

Goofy (interrupting):
—and the best karaoke partner this side of Disneyland!

Selena:
I don’t even sing karaoke with people.

Goofy:
You will with US! Hyuck!

Benny Blanco:
Selena, look around. The candles, the roses, the llama, Goofy’s poem—this is just the beginning.

Selena:
The beginning of what?

Goofy and Benny (together):
APPRECIATION!

Selena (sighing):
I feel like I just walked into the strangest boy band in history.

Goofy:
Hyuck! Wait till ya see the dance routine!

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Buy the Zoo Conspiracy

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Solid Snake leaned against the railing outside the Vancouver Zoo, cigarette unlit for once, bandana tails moving in the Pacific breeze.

Brad Pitt—half in character, half himself—stared at the enclosures with that familiar 12 Monkeys intensity.

Snake:
“I watched 12 Monkeys again. You weren’t crazy, Brad. Not completely. Maybe the system was.”

Brad smirked. “That’s what all the characters say.”

Snake folded his arms.

Snake:
“I’m thinking of buying this place. Not to shut it down overnight. Not to play eco–terrorist. But to transition it. Sanctuary model. No more breeding programs for ticket sales. No more pacing polar bears for Instagram.”

Brad tilted his head. “So… not my character’s version. No virus. No chaos.”

Snake shook his head.

Snake:
“Freedom doesn’t mean panic. It means strategy. Rewild where possible. Expand protected land. Partner with conservation biologists. Some animals can’t just be ‘set free.’ They’d die in a week. That’s not liberation—that’s negligence.”

Brad looked impressed.

Brad:
“So you agree with the idea… but not the execution.”

Snake:
“Exactly. The film was about breaking cages in people’s minds. But in real life? You don’t open every lock at once. You build something better first.”

A peacock cried in the distance.

Snake gestured toward the enclosures.

Snake:
“Imagine this place as a rescue center. Animals saved from trafficking. From collapsing ecosystems. Public education that actually funds habitat protection in the wild. Turn spectators into guardians.”

Brad nodded slowly.

Brad:
“That’s less ‘12 Monkeys’… more ‘12-Year Plan.’”

Snake allowed himself a rare half-smile.

Snake:
“Change the world quietly. No apocalypse required.”

They stood in silence, watching a rescued owl blink from its perch.

Snake:
“Your character wasn’t insane, Brad. He just hated cages. I get that.”

Brad shrugged.

“Just make sure, Snake… if you buy the zoo… you don’t become the new zookeeper of another system.”

Snake adjusted his bandana.

“I won’t. I’ve broken out of enough prisons to know the difference.”

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Dubya – Fortunate Son

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G.I. Joe:
They used to call me a fortunate son.
Not because I was lucky—but because I wasn’t born into power.

George W. Bush though? Now that was a fortunate son.

While other men were learning how to bleed in the jungle, he was learning how to fall upward. Daddy’s name on the door. Daddy’s friends holding the ladder. Texas drawl, Ivy League bones. When the war came knocking, he found a window and slipped out the back. National Guard—paper shield, soft landing. Chicken hawk with a flight suit for the cameras and no mud on the boots.

And then came 9/11.

Smoke in the sky. Fear in the streets. Real bodies. Real dead. Real grief.
And suddenly the fortunate son had his war.

They held up the poster—him with the bullhorn, standing on the rubble like a commander—but every grunt I knew could see it: this wasn’t about justice. This was about permission. Permission to finish old grudges. Permission to test new weapons. Permission to turn fear into oil, contracts, and flags wrapped around coffins.

Iraq didn’t hit those towers.
But Iraq paid the bill.

They sold it like a used car: weapons of mass destruction, mushroom clouds, trust us. And the fortunate son smiled that simple smile, the one that says don’t think too hard. Meanwhile, kids from trailer parks and immigrant families were shipped off to fight a war that had nothing to do with protecting home and everything to do with protecting interests.

I buried friends who never even knew why they were there.

That’s the difference between a soldier and a chicken hawk.
A soldier pays in blood.
A chicken hawk pays in speeches.

So don’t tell me about courage from behind a podium. Don’t talk honor when you’ve never had to choose between pulling a trigger and living with the ghost afterward. History remembers who showed up—and who sent others in their place.

The fortunate son got his war.
The rest of us got the scars.

And that’s something no legacy can ever launder clean.

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