Killing Kindness w/ Capitalism Vol 1: When The Villain Was Actually The Hero…

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This week’s pick for ‘the villain was actually the hero’ is my man, the baddass baron of resource monopoly, Immortan Joe.


Mad Max: Fury Road is such an unholy travesty of a film that I felt compelled to meet its evil lance mid plunge, with my God-given word-sword and defeat it in the name of Blessed Business Practices and Prudent Investment Strategies…. With every ounce of battle-rap sales skills I have in me, I mean to rip the blackened heart from the chest of this foul celluloid’s monstrous form. In other words, get ready to be showered in some hardcore truth napalm cause my Huey-cobra’s are making their way to your peaceful village for an extended period of ‘The fire! The fire! It burns… please KILL ME!’ By the time you hear the music, it’ll be too late. And once I hear the screams I’ll know that God’s great work will be underway. I will freely admit that I enjoyed Mad Max I and II and Thunderdome was cool when I was 7 but is pretty much a piece of shit now. I can attest to the fact that I went in with an open mind, prepared for it to go either way without any skin off my nose. And then it started… great effects, fast paced action, some excellent costume design… but then, not too long in… It completely fucked itself to pieces. Reliving it now I’m still gobsmacked by the sheer arrogance it must’ve taken to produce such a torrid piece of communist propaganda! In essence, this film is the embodiment of pure evil, for it attacks all that is holy and good in God’s eyes… The stench of corruption emanates so strongly from this film, I’m convinced that Satan himself must’ve played some part in getting this film made. Not directly of course, probably a money-man, or some top-office Jabba the Hutt type, influencing, manipulating, spreading chaos among God’s people one film at a time. Contrary to what this occultist newsletter of pagan witchcraft and Satanic black magic portrays, Mad Max and that one-armed bint WERE NOT the heroes of the story. No, the true hero was that baddass baron of resource monopoly, Immortan Joe.  Ah, Joe! A man with old-fashioned integrity, a keen sense of responsibility, and truckloads of honour; a man who looked after a large, feral and unruly community, keeping the peace while protecting their supply of a rare resource in that dry wasteland – water. That no one -including my date that night – has even questioned the circumstances leading up to the film’s narrative beginning, or wondered what Joe’s side to the story is, fills me with a weary disgust. To see Joe in a true light – as savour not tyrant – merely involves some closer examination. To be honest, it should be enough to just take a good gander at the deformed and twisted visage, demented mannerisms and non-verbal gibberings of LITERALLY EVERYONE who wasn’t a main character! Even those who were clearly part of Joe’s, obviously legitimate, operation – his upper management, PA’s, team leaders and armed defenders – were either dying from rare diseases, non-functioning due to morbid obesity or barely able to hold back the twitchy beginnings of a psychiatric episode. While I’m not usually surprised by the stupidity of most humanoids, I must say that I’m a little stumped as to how no one else has come to the same obvious conclusion as me – that Joe was the only one there capable of holding the society together, protecting the water and breeding women AND fighting off miscreants, cannibals and invaders.
I mean, did anyone else even pay attention to the slack-jawed brood of genetic defectives and drooling retards who were climbing and scrambling over each other just to get trampled to death for a few drops of water? They looked and behaved far more like lobotomised baboons than any creature remotely resembling humanoids.
Of course, this is where the hippies, lesbian’s and bleeding-heart liberals rise up from their scatter cushions in indignation, and with the soft little voices of a wool-wearing allergy-magnet, they gently clear their parched throats before managing to stutter the words out before slumping back down pathetically to take another herbal remedy with their tiny, shaking hands, “But he was a wicked tyrant who monopolised the resources for himself, kept women most capable of breeding locked in his rock castle and pretended to be a God so he could rule as an authoritarian dictator!” To which I say – Yes he was, and GOOD ON HIM! He did all those things, not out of some tyrannical fervour, or a blind hunger for power, but rather out of a sense of honour, loyalty and responsibility. He knew that it was up to him to organise the community in order to keep everyone alive, and the town functioning, because if it were left up to the general populace – you know, those deranged morons in loin clothes bellowing out garbled nonsense and raping each other – the town would’ve probably murdered each before having the skill or sense to logically organise a way to share the water and protect their border. If it had been left up to them, it is quite likely that, blindly driven by their apelike impulses, they would’ve wound up trampled to death, en masse, in the narrow hallways that lead through the rock castle to the precious reservoir. Or even worse, the fastest creatures who made it to the water supply, might’ve ended up drowned, side by side, with heads fully submerged, after they mindlessly and greedily guzzled the precious water down their baboon-like gullets. Then, with their rigid bodies just left there to decompose in the 40° heat, the one truly good thing about their small village, and the only thing keeping them alive – their precious water supply  would’ve been hopelessly contaminated and rendered useless, thus relegating that small corner of defective genetics to the long anonymity of an unmarked grave.