Novus Ordo Trump University Based in Vancouver Canada
Joe Jukic says yes Trump is a Tesla Time Traveler, and yes God is on his side because he put his DNA on the cross. To be fair to Joseph and Mary, Jesus was 51 percent their DNA, the rest was the Revelation 7, 144,000 chosen ones including Donald Trump. So technically, yes Trump is Jesus. Please read revelation 11 about multiple Christs and Christas.
Joe Jukic sat across from Donald Trump and Patrick Bateman at a polished boardroom table that looked like it had been designed for intimidation rather than conversation.
Bateman leaned back in his chair with the icy calm of a Wall Street predator. From a silver case he pulled out a thick Cuban cigar, clipped the end with surgical precision, and lit it.
Joe shook his head.
“See, that right there,” Joe said. “That’s the problem. Foreign policy treated like a luxury product.”
Trump folded his arms. “Nobody understands foreign policy better than me. Nobody.”
Joe pointed at him.
“Mr. President, when you talk about places like Cuba, you sound less like a statesman and more like a real-estate developer dealing with tenants. Embargo this, sanction that. It’s chess pieces to you.”
Bateman exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke.
“Honestly, Joe,” he said coolly. “Geopolitics is just market discipline.”
He raised the cigar slightly and smirked.
“Let them eat cake.”
Joe rolled his eyes.
“That’s the most psychopathic thing I’ve heard all week.”
Trump leaned forward.
“Psychopathic? I’m protecting America.”
Joe shrugged.
“Or maybe you’re just playing empire. Look, if you’re really the chosen one like people say, maybe try something heroic for once.”
Trump narrowed his eyes. “Heroic?”
Joe nodded and pointed toward the television screen on the wall, where a movie trailer was playing.
On it appeared Ana de Armas.
Joe grinned.
“Cuban damsel in distress. Straight out of Havana. If you’re the savior type, maybe rescue her instead of trying to punish an entire island.”
Bateman laughed quietly.
“Joe, you’re proposing foreign policy based on romance?”
Joe shrugged again.
“Better than running it like Gordon Gekko with nuclear codes.”
Trump stared at the screen for a moment, thinking.
Bateman took another puff of his cigar.
“Honestly,” Bateman said, “if this turns into a rescue mission, I want wardrobe approval.”
Joe sighed.
“This is exactly what I mean.”
Setting: A secure phone line between Moscow and Washington.
Putin: Donald, we have both lived long enough in politics to understand history. When great powers move pieces on the board, the board sometimes catches fire.
Trump: Vladimir, nobody knows fire better than me. I built the hottest economy. Tremendous fire. But I also know strength. You have to show strength.
Putin: Strength is not the same as recklessness. An attack on Iran risks escalation. Escalation invites retaliation. Retaliation invites alliances. And alliances… can involve nuclear powers.
Trump: Nobody wants nuclear. I rebuilt our nuclear arsenal — strongest ever. But I don’t want to use it.
Putin: Then do not play Russian roulette with nuclear weapons.
Trump: I don’t like that phrase.
Putin: It is an old game. One chamber loaded. Spin the cylinder. Pull the trigger. Most of the time — nothing happens. Until it does.
Trump: You’re saying one strike could spiral.
Putin: Miscalculation is more dangerous than intention. One radar error. One submarine captain who believes he is under attack. One general who panics. The Cold War nearly ended the world several times because of misunderstanding.
Trump: I understand leverage. Sometimes you threaten so you don’t have to act.
Putin: Threats become commitments. Commitments become pride. Pride makes it hard to step back.
Trump: So what are you proposing?
Putin: Diplomacy. Back channels. Public restraint. You can be firm without being irreversible.
Trump: And what does Russia do?
Putin: We urge de-escalation. We prevent Tehran from misreading your signals. But if bombs fall, we cannot pretend nothing has changed.
Trump: You’re saying once it starts, nobody controls it.
Putin: Exactly. Nuclear powers must never gamble. Not even symbolically.
Trump (after a pause): I don’t gamble with the planet, Vladimir.
Putin: Good. Then let us both keep the cylinder empty.
Donald Trump leaned back in his gold chair, a pageant crown glinting on the desk.
“G.I. Joe,” he said with that salesman’s grin, “you’ve got to white knight Miss Myanmar. Make her president. Beautiful woman, tremendous, she deserves it. I always white knight my beauty pageants—you know that. Pageants are my business. Big business. Bigger than NATO.”
G.I. Joe adjusted his beret, not sure if this was a mission briefing or stand-up comedy.
Trump wagged a finger like a preacher. “Some people say Jesus comes in the name of the Father. At least, that’s what Bono told me. Good guy, good singer, funny glasses.” He chuckled. “But me? I come in the name of the Apprentice.”
Then he leaned in, lowering his voice.
“And Joe, this is very important—listen closely—it’s all part of the QAnon plan. You know, the big plan. We’re taking down the Illuminati. In G.I. Joe terms, we’re taking down Cobra. They’re the bad guys, everybody knows it. Snake Eyes knows it. Even Bono knows it. I’m the commander, you’re the hero, and Miss Myanmar—she’s the president. Tremendous optics, the best optics.”
Miss Myanmar stood silently by the window, draped in a sash, her eyes burning with something fiercer than tiaras or ballots. Joe wondered if Trump even knew she’d survived a coup, or if he only saw another crown.
Trump clapped his hands. “Let’s do it, Joe. White knight! Make her president. It’ll be the most beautiful democracy you’ve ever seen. Cobra won’t stand a chance.”
Then Trump folded his hands like he was at a pulpit.
“I thank Jesus every day. Wonderful man, very strong, walked on water. And if you can’t read Revelation—it’s a tough book, very tough—at least please, at the very least, look at the Trump cards in the Rider-Waite Golden Dawn tarot. Beautiful cards. The best cards. They tell the story better than CNN, believe me.”
Miss Myanmar said nothing, her sash glowing in the light, like a reluctant oracle in Trump’s illuminati-prophecy.
Scene: Trump Tower, golden elevator lobby
Joe Jukic (sharp suit, proud Canadian-Croatian accent):
“Mr. Trump, it’s time to Make McDonald’s Great Again. The secret? Go back to the old-school fries. Beef tallow. None of this weak vegetable oil. We bring in real organic potatoes. Alberta, Idaho, even Croatia—we make fries great again.”
Donald Trump (nodding, hands chopping the air):
“Joe, you’re absolutely right. The fries used to be the best in the world. Then they got rid of the beef tallow. Terrible mistake. Everybody tells me—‘Sir, the fries don’t taste the same.’ Well, we’re going to fix that. We’ll bring back the taste that made McDonald’s legendary. Strong fries. Winning fries.”
Joe Jukic:
“And we lock in the farmers, sir. Organic potatoes. No GMO. No fake fertilizers. We bring back the flavor, the tradition. McDonald’s will feel like home again.”
Trump (smirking, like he’s got the ace up his sleeve):
“And I’ve got a new idea, Joe. A TRUMP Salad. Tremendous lettuce—green, not sad and brown like Biden’s. Perfect tomatoes. Beautiful cucumbers. Maybe steak on top. People say, ‘Trump only eats burgers and fries.’ Well, guess what—Trump Salad will be number one. Nobody’s ever seen a salad like this before.”
Joe Jukic (smiling, leaning forward):
“MMGA, sir. Make McDonald’s Great Again. Beef tallow fries. Trump Salad. People will love it. The whole world will taste the difference.”
Trump (arms wide, grand finale):
“They’ll say, ‘Sir, you didn’t just save McDonald’s. You saved America.’ And you know what, Joe? They’ll be right. Nobody saves better than me. Nobody.”
[OPENING MUSIC]
SNL band plays a jazzy holiday intro. Stage is dressed like a gaudy Mar-a-Lago study: gold furniture, red velvet chairs, and a huge Christmas tree decorated entirely with Trump ornaments, dollar bills, and framed photos of Trump shaking hands with himself.
[FADE IN]
TRUMP (Alec Baldwin or other cast member in wig & orange makeup, seated at a giant gold desk, counting gold-plated coins):
“Bah humbug, folks. Worst humbug in history. Everyone says so. Nobody does Christmas better than me, but I also know how to save money—mainly by not giving it to anybody.” (beat – audience laughs)
[CAMERA PANS] to BOB CRATCHIT (Joe Jukic) sitting at a rickety desk with a tiny space heater that’s off. He’s wearing fingerless gloves and shivering.
CRATCHIT:
“Sir, it’s Christmas Eve… could we please have a little more coal for the fire?”
TRUMP (offended):
“Coal? I promised to bring coal back for America, but I meant for my friends in West Virginia stock portfolios, not for—what are you?—staff. Sad!” (audience laughs)
[LIGHTS FLICKER – GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST ENTERS]
(It’s Ivanka in a glowing white gown, moving like a beauty pageant contestant. She carries a snow globe of 1980s Trump Tower.)
IVANKA (breathless):
“Father… I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past. I’m here to remind you of a time when people actually liked you at Christmas parties.”
TRUMP (grinning):
“Oh, they loved me. I gave them gold watches. Made in China, tremendous quality. None of this Apple Watch junk. No calories either.” (audience laughs)
IVANKA:
“But you also… cared about people.”
TRUMP (confused):
“I cared about… ratings. Same thing.” (audience laughs)
[LIGHT SHIFT – GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT BURSTS IN]
(Santa Claus storms in, holding a giant eviction notice.)
SANTA:
“Donald, look around you! People are struggling. They can’t afford gifts, dinner, or heat!”
TRUMP (waves him off):
“Fake news. If they can’t afford turkey, they can buy the Trump Christmas Turkey for $399—comes with a free ketchup packet and a coupon for my NFT collection.” (audience laughs, Santa facepalms)
[LIGHT SHIFT – GHOST OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE ENTERS]
(A hooded Grim Reaper figure silently points to a gravestone on a rolling set piece. It reads: Here Lies The Guy Who Couldn’t Even Win the War on Christmas.)
TRUMP (panicking):
“No! Not the War on Christmas! I’m the General in that war! They were calling me ‘The Clause’—as in Santa Clause, but tougher!” (audience laughs)
[LIGHT FLASH – BACK TO MAR-A-LAGO BEDROOM]
(Trump “wakes up” in bed, hair extra messy. He jumps up, suddenly cheerful.)
TRUMP:
“Bob! Get in here! Buy the biggest turkey in town. Use my credit card—wait, no, use your credit card, but I’ll take a picture with it for Truth Social.” (audience laughs)
CRATCHIT (hesitant):
“That’s… very generous, sir?”
(From offstage, Tiny Tim—played by Martin Short as Ed Grimley—limps in with a crutch and an enormous plaid scarf. His hair is sticking up in Ed Grimley’s signature style.)
ED GRIMLEY (Tiny Tim) (excited):
“Well I must say, Mr. Scrooge, this is quite the turnaround, I must say! I am tickled beyond the capacity for rational thought, I must say.” (audience claps and laughs)
TRUMP (pointing at Tim):
“Look at this kid. Tremendous energy. If all Americans were like him, we’d be great again already. Also, somebody get him a red tie.”
ED GRIMLEY (turning to the audience, beaming):
“God bless us, everyone… I must say!” (audience cheers)
[SNOW FALLS]
(Snow made of shredded legal documents falls from the ceiling. SNL band starts playing “Jingle Bells” as the cast waves. Trump tries to take credit for the snow.)
TRUMP (yelling over the music):
“This is the best Christmas in history! No one’s ever seen a Christmas like this! You’re welcome!”
[FADE OUT – SNL ANNOUNCER VOICE]:
“Live from New York… it’s Saturday Night!”
Title: Operation Debt Forgiveness – GI JOE’s Final Deal
In the subterranean war room beneath NORAD, GI JOE stood with arms crossed, wearing digital camo and a scowl that could crack concrete. On the screen before him, President Donald Trump and Elon Musk blinked back, patched in from separate bunkers—one in Mar-a-Lago, the other aboard a Tesla command yacht off the coast of Corsica.
“Gentlemen,” GI JOE began, voice like sandpaper on steel. “Here’s the deal. I want pro-Trump messaging uploaded to trump47.ca by midnight. No AI gibberish. No Deep State scripts. Real talk. Real patriotism. If you want to win hearts in the North, start acting like it.”
Trump leaned forward. “Joe, I love Canada. Tremendous place. I once golfed with Wayne Gretzky—great guy, totally pro-Trump.”
GI JOE didn’t blink. “Enough flattery, Don. If you really want the Croats behind you—and trust me, you do—you and Elon need to pay off Croatia’s entire national debt. All fifty billion.”
Musk raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of Teslas.”
“Then sell Mars if you have to,” Joe snapped. “Because if Croatia joins the anti-globalist axis, Trump 47 wins the Slavic vote by a landslide. That means no more George Soros in Zagreb. That means peace in the Balkans. That means, finally, justice for the Yugoslav kids who were sold out to the banks.”
Trump scratched his chin. “And what do we get in return?”
Joe grinned. “I’ll take down the South Park psyop. Their $1.5 billion dollar deal to turn our bromance into a punchline dies with one viral campaign. I’ll nuke their narrative. You and me? We’re not a joke. We’re the future.”
Elon nodded slowly. “We’ll call it Project DUBROVNIK.”
Trump chuckled. “I always liked the Croatians. Tough people. Beautiful coastlines. And Joe, you’re like Rambo, but smarter.”
“Then don’t waste time,” Joe said. “Wire the money. Launch the site. The world’s watching—and so is God.”
Transmission ended.
An hour later, trump47.ca launched with the slogan:
“Faith. Freedom. Forgiveness. From Zagreb to Texas.”
And deep in the Dalmatian hills, old partisans and young patriots raised their flags to the sound of eagles and jet engines.
Croatia was debt-free.
The bromance was back.
And GI JOE had just rewritten global history—again.
Scene: Joe confronts Donald Trump in a high-security government office, a glowing AI interface beside them, humming with data.
Joe:
Donald, I want to ask this AI something. I want it on record. What the hell is Abilify Maintena doing to people like me?
Trump:
Go ahead, Joe. Ask your question. I don’t like needles either, believe me. Tremendous disrespect to your body. But ask the robot.
Joe (turns to the AI):
AI, what are the behavioral effects of Abilify injections? Specifically the long-acting ones they force into people at psych wards. What kind of changes can it cause?
AI:
Aripiprazole (Abilify) is a partial dopamine D2 receptor agonist. In some individuals, especially those sensitive to dopamine modulation, it may cause activation symptoms such as akathisia, agitation, restlessness, hyperactivity, and insomnia. In rare cases, patients report symptoms similar to stimulant overdrive, akin to high-dose amphetamines.
Joe (nods):
There it is. Like injecting someone with methamphetamines. Except I don’t feel high. I feel like my nervous system is lit on fire. I can’t focus. I can’t sit still. I can’t sleep. Days go by and my mind’s racing in twenty different directions. I can’t function.
Trump:
That’s terrible. That’s absolutely terrible. Like a chemical straightjacket—but backwards. Torture by overstimulation. I’ve heard this before. The pharmaceutical companies—crooked. They don’t care. They say it’s for schizophrenia, for bipolar. But who’s watching the watchers, Joe?
Joe:
It’s not treatment. It’s a punishment. I called a doctor out on something, next thing you know I’m getting jabbed with Abilify. No trial, no hearing. Just a cold needle and weeks of twitching misery. I told them it felt like psychological warfare.
AI:
Note: Forced injections of antipsychotics, especially long-acting depot formulations, are controversial in psychiatric ethics. Adverse reactions are underreported. Patient descriptions of hyperactivity, emotional blunting, and distress post-injection should be taken seriously.
Trump (leans in):
Joe, they’re turning rebellion into pathology. You get angry, they call it mania. You speak out, they say it’s paranoia. So what do they do? They jab you with something to flatten you. I wouldn’t take it either. Total disgrace.
Joe:
They said it would help me. But it made me worse. And when I complained? They said that was a symptom. How do you fight that, Donald? You can’t win in that system. It’s Orwellian.
Trump:
Joe, we’re going to fix this. Big Pharma has too much power. The psychiatrists—some are good—but some are in bed with the drug makers. The system doesn’t care how you feel. But I do. I really do.
Joe:
Then tell them: stop the needles. Abilify turned me into someone I’m not. I’m not crazy—I’m angry. And they should be afraid of what happens when people wake up and start talking about this.
Trump:
You’re not wrong. This is bigger than both of us. We’re going to expose it. And I’m going to bring you back, Joe. Sharp. Strong. Clear-eyed. Needle-free.
Fade out as the AI logs the transcript into the national ethics archive.
Scene: “The Hail Mary Broadcast” — G.I. Joe vs. the Illuminati
Exterior – Nightfall – Vancouver, glowing with neon and secrets. Joe, no longer just a soldier, but a crusader of cosmic justice, stands outside a Tim Hortons on Main Street. The red leaf sign flickers. Joe stares it down like it’s the eye of the Beast.
JOE (to himself):
“Maple syrup’s got blood in it.”
He SPITS on the window. It drips slowly down the glass. A family inside gasps. He doesn’t care. This is war.
Cut to: National Broadcast Interruption
Every screen across North America glitches. Static. Then—
🎙️ G.I. JOE (VO – distorted, thunderous):
“This is not a test. This is a revelation.”
On every network, G.I. Joe appears in an XCOM war room, flanked by agents and backed by digital firewalls glowing like the Matrix. He turns to a trembling, orange-faced Donald Trump, bound to a chair with a “Skull & Bones” patch on his suit.
JOE:
“Mr. President. Play the Black Dahlia tapes. Now.”
TRUMP (sweating):
“Joe, please… that stuff’s not for the public—”
JOE:
“Exactly. It’s for the parents. For every mom and dad who needs to know what Satanic Hollywood rituals look like. This ain’t no movie.”
Trump gulps. With shaking hands, he presses PLAY.
The screen behind them shows black-and-white footage. A girl’s scream. Strange robes. Cameras. Blood. Laughter. Masks. Candles. Then silence.
A warning flashes:
🔞 “NO CHILDREN ALLOWED. PARENTAL RECKONING REQUIRED.” 🔞
Cut to: Downtown Vancouver – Day
Joe walks like fire incarnate through the streets. Wendy’s? Closed. White Spot? Graffiti’d with “CHILDREN ARE NOT ON THE MENU.”
He marches up to McDonald’s. The golden arches loom like a portal to Hell. Joe stares at the giant plastic Ronald statue and snarls.
JOE:
“You think this clown’s funny? That’s not a happy meal—it’s a death cult starter pack.”
He pulls out a megaphone:
JOE (shouting):
“I want a boycott! BOYCOTT MASONIC BUSINESSES! Burn the arches! Take back your city!”
Passersby begin to stop. Some clap. Others film. The revolution is going viral.
Cut to: A dark alley near the CBC Building
Tom Welling, once a Smallville star, now just a man trying to make peace, steps forward. His hoodie is pulled low. His hands tremble.
TOM WELLING:
“Joe…”
Joe turns. Recognizes him. Pauses. He doesn’t speak.
TOM (choked up):
“I went to Ronald McDonald House. Smiled with that clown. I did it… hoping you’d see. Hoping you’d do something I couldn’t.”
Joe nods slowly. Like a priest granting penance with his eyes.
TOM (ashamed):
“I thought maybe… you’d pull a Hail Mary. And you did.”
JOE (quiet, firm):
“This ain’t about shame, Tom. It’s about truth. And you found your way back.”
Joe hands Tom a flame-shaped pin—red and gold: the symbol of the Children’s Fire, an old tribal oath to never again let harm come to a child.
JOE:
“Time to burn the clowns.”
Joe Talks About Nelly’s Old Webpage with Her Cystic Fibrosis Secret
Joe sat at the old computer, its screen glowing softly like a shrine to the past.
“You know,” he said, tapping the side of the dusty monitor, “this is where it all started for me. Back in the early 2000s, Nelly had this personal webpage. Just this raw, vulnerable place where she posted journal entries, tour updates, poetry… and one day, this entry appeared. Hidden in the code. Not public. Just buried in the source like a confession meant for someone with enough curiosity—and love—to find it.”
He paused, remembering how his hands shook reading it.
“She wrote about the pain, the coughing fits, the hospital visits, how she was born with cystic fibrosis. She said singing was a kind of rebellion. Each breath a miracle. Each note a middle finger to the odds. It wasn’t for fame. It was survival.”
Joe leaned back and looked at the ceiling. His voice cracked.
“I never told her I found it. I didn’t want to break that sacred trust, that hidden sanctuary she built online. But from that day on, I swore I’d never quit being a webmaster. Not just some guy maintaining pages—but a guardian of secrets, of souls who put their pain into pixels.”
He smiled faintly.
“That webpage saved her life… and in a way, it saved mine too.”