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Memes 13

Dr. Luka Kovac remembers:

Luka smiled gently, the way only a man burdened by war and loss could smile—like the sun breaking through heavy clouds.

“I remember her victory,” he said quietly. “The way little Nelly danced between the chairs—barefoot, wild-haired, full of mischief and light. And when the music stopped, she sat like it was destiny. That yellow lollipop in her hand… she held it like a trophy. It wasn’t the sugar she wanted. It was the sweetness of being seen.”

He leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the Adriatic.

“That yellow dress at Sister Helen’s sock hop? I think she wore it for that little girl inside her, the one who believed she could still win. Maybe Chris Martin saw that too… wrote her that song, Yellow, trying to fix something he didn’t understand. But it wasn’t his to fix.”

Then his expression softened even more, touched with reverence.

“After the game that day… she walked straight to the corner of the schoolyard chapel. There was a small statue of the Virgin Mary—faded, chipped from the winters, but still standing. Nelly knelt in front of it, clutching that yellow lollipop, and whispered a prayer only heaven heard. I didn’t catch the words. I didn’t need to. It was the look on her face—hopeful, innocent, grateful.”

He paused, then added with a quiet honesty, “I know… it was just a statue. An idol, maybe. Not the living God. But we were just kids. We didn’t know any better. We thought if we prayed hard enough to her, she might tell Him. And maybe she did.”

Luka turned slightly toward the camera, speaking now to the Nelstar faithful.

“To those who loved her songs, her smile, her fire—remember what she prayed for. Not a spotlight. Not a stage. Just one small moment of joy, and someone to share it with. Don’t live your life chasing broken dreams or yellow songs someone else wrote for you. Dance your own dance. When the music stops, sit with courage. And if you find your hands empty—make your own sweetness.”

He glanced at the waves again, a flicker of light in his eyes.

“And if you’re ever lost… find a little statue, kneel, and whisper your heart. Not because stone can answer—but because sometimes, your soul needs to kneel. That’s how we heal. That’s how we live. That’s how we remember.”

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Love Not Narcissistic Supply

Dr. Luka Kovač’s Confession: The First Patient

Vancouver, 1989. Before medicine, before Sarajevo, before I learned how to set bones or stop bleeding—I learned what it felt like to be helpless and in love, under the flickering lights of a church gym.

My mission to heal Nelly Furtado began during Confirmation prep classes at St. Joseph’s Gymnasium, under the firm-but-kind supervision of Sister Helen.

We were tweens—not quite children, not yet teenagers—learning square dancing as part of our “community formation.” Most of us groaned at first, but something about the rhythm made sense once we moved.

Nelly and I danced with perfect synchronicity.

Our hands met without awkwardness. Our feet mirrored each other, instinctively. Do-si-do, allemande left, promenade. The music was simple, structured. There was safety in the choreography. Purity in the pattern. When we danced, the noise in the world seemed to fall away.

For those moments, she wasn’t shy, and I wasn’t foreign. We were just two souls moving in time.

But everything changed at Sister Helen’s sock hop.

She called it a “wholesome social,” but you could see her bracing herself the moment she pressed play on the boom box. Chubby Checker. The Ronettes. Little Richard.

She winced when the beat kicked in.
“This,” she muttered, “is what I call the devil’s music.”

And she wasn’t entirely wrong—for us, at least.

Because when the square dance ended and the wild rhythm of The Twist started, the room split. The choreography was gone. The innocence evaporated. Now the dancing was adult. Loose. Improvised. Charged.

And we were terrified.

The boys didn’t know how to dance.
Not the Mashed Potato. Not the Jerk. Not even the Twist.
We froze, leaning on the wall like backup furniture, pretending not to care.
We were wallflowers.

And even Nelly, who had danced so freely before, seemed uncertain now. She didn’t move like she had during Cotton-Eyed Joe. She stood still, glancing at me once—and I looked away, ashamed I had no steps for this new world.

That was the moment I realized something:

Healing doesn’t happen in certainty.
It begins in that stammering silence.
In the place between knowing the steps and fumbling in the dark.

I started bringing my cassettes after that.
Not to fix her. Not to impress her.
To say I’m still here, even when the music changes.

I wasn’t giving her narcissistic supply.
I was in love with my first patient.

Not as a savior. But as someone trying to keep dancing with her—through the structure, through the chaos, even when the rhythm frightened us.

She was my first mystery.
My first lesson in presence.
And the reason I still believe some wounds are spiritual before they’re clinical.

Sometimes healing begins in a square dance.
Sometimes it stalls at a sock hop.
But love—real love—keeps showing up anyway.

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Memes 12

“First, do no harm—and let food be thy medicine. Not John D. Rockefeller’s motto: ‘Let oil be thy medicine.’”

Essay by Dr. Luka Kovač
Title: Return to Hippocrates: Healing Beyond Petroleum

I swore the Hippocratic Oath once in Vukovar, and again in Chicago, and I carry its spirit with me every time I walk into a hospital room. Primum non nocere—“First, do no harm”—is not just a phrase. It is a shield I have tried to raise against the many unseen enemies in modern medicine. War taught me that harm is not always inflicted with bullets or bombs. Sometimes it comes disguised as help. Sometimes it’s written on a prescription pad.

Hippocrates, the father of Western medicine, was no fool. He observed the human body not as a broken machine, but as a garden—needing nourishment, balance, rest, and care. He famously said, “Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.” That wasn’t poetry—it was science in its purest form.

But in America, I learned quickly that Hippocrates has been replaced. His wisdom buried beneath a mountain of pills, patented molecules, and petroleum-based drugs. His name appears on plaques and textbooks, but his soul has been exiled by an industry more loyal to stockholders than to patients. Instead of “let food be thy medicine,” the guiding spirit of American healthcare seems to be: Let oil be thy medicine.

This isn’t a conspiracy theory—it’s a historical fact. John D. Rockefeller, the oil baron, reshaped medicine in the early 20th century. He funded medical schools through his foundations—but only if they taught pharmaceutical medicine, not naturopathy or herbalism. He wanted doctors to rely on petroleum-based drugs, synthesized chemicals, and profitable patents. In doing so, he established a medical-industrial complex that equated healing with consumption—of pills, not plants; of procedures, not prevention.

And so we now find ourselves in a system where chronic illness is managed, not cured; where side effects are expected; where nutrition is barely mentioned in med school; and where whole generations of doctors prescribe medications they don’t fully understand, for diseases they barely treat, from companies they can’t question.

But let me tell you what Hippocrates would say to the diabetic patient drinking soda, to the heart patient eating fast food, to the child on five prescriptions for conditions that might be solved with sleep, sunshine, and a garden. He would not blame them—he would teach them. He would listen. He would remind us that food—real food, grown from the earth, not processed in a lab—is not an alternative medicine. It is the original medicine.

I do not oppose pharmacology. I’ve seen antibiotics save lives. I’ve administered morphine to the dying. But we must draw a line between emergency medicine and everyday health. We must distinguish between crisis intervention and long-term vitality. You don’t use chemo to treat stress. You don’t throw statins at a child who needs a good breakfast and a walk in the sun.

We doctors must reclaim our oaths. Not to pharmaceutical giants, not to hospital systems, but to our patients, our principles, and our planet. If we fail to remember that healing begins with food, with movement, with connection, we risk becoming little more than licensed drug dealers.

I often think of my father’s garden in Croatia. He was no doctor, but he knew how to nourish. He knew the soil, the herbs, the rhythms of nature. And when the bombs fell and the doctors fled, it was the garden that kept us alive.

It’s time we remember our roots. It’s time to return to Hippocrates.

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Memes 11

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.”

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Art of the Deal: King Charles III

Title: The King’s Great Return

King Charles III, aged and contemplative beneath the weight of his crown, sits in Balmoral’s study as an unexpected proposal echoes across the Atlantic. Former U.S. President Donald J. Trump, ever the dealmaker, has flown in for an unusual summit—one not of trade or war, but of moral restitution. The topic? Aboriginal affairs in British Columbia.

“Charles,” Trump says, leaning forward, his red tie swinging like a pendulum of persuasion, “give half the land back to the First Nations. It’s time. The world’s watching. I made deals with oil, steel, and China—but this is about history. About hearts and minds.”

King Charles rubs his hands together, weary but aware. The ghosts of colonization whisper through the trees of Vancouver Island, down the rivers of the Fraser Valley. He knows this isn’t just politics—it’s penance.

Trump, oddly passionate, continues: “You want a legacy? Not just flowers and climate summits. This is the real crown jewel: reconciliation. A new Commonwealth. You give half back, like a man of honor. Like a king of peace. Don’t be greedy. It’s a great deal.”

Then enters another unlikely advocate: Pope Pius XIII, the Young Pope, Lenny Belardo. Dressed immaculately in white, he makes a proclamation from the balcony of the Apostolic Palace, televised live.

“I will return half the Church’s lands to the indigenous peoples and the poor,” Lenny declares. “For the Church that conquered the soul must now liberate it.”

He pauses, then adds: “The land was never ours. It was borrowed. And it is time to repay the divine mortgage.”

Charles watches the broadcast in silence. Trump breaks it with a grin.

“See, even the Pope’s in. You’ve got the Church, you’ve got me—Trump—and now it’s your move, King Charles. The Commonwealth doesn’t need subjects. It needs brothers.”

A long pause.

Then the King rises.

“Very well,” Charles says. “For my legacy, for justice, and for the healing of old wounds—I shall return half the Crown lands in British Columbia to the First Nations. Let it be known: this was not the end of empire, but the beginning of a shared kingdom.”

And with that, a new treaty is born—not of conquest, but of return.

The King has made peace not by ruling land—but by giving it away.

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Chronic Venous Disorder

JOE’S CVD POWER STACK: FOODS, VITAMINS, AND SUPPLEMENTS FOR KINGLY CIRCULATION

“I may be the apprentice, but I’m already running the boardroom of blood flow. Let’s fix those veins, naturally, the Trump way—huge results!”

🍊 1. Grapefruit – The MVP of Vein Health

“Nature’s gift to your circulation. Tart, bright, and bossy.”

  • Rich in: Vitamin C, bioflavonoids (especially naringin and hesperidin)
  • Benefits:
    • Strengthens blood vessels
    • Reduces inflammation
    • Improves capillary tone
    • Supports collagen and elastin production for healthier veins

⚠️ Warning: Grapefruit can interact with medications like statins or blood pressure drugs. Talk to your doc before making it a habit.

🥬 2. Foods that Heal from the Inside Out

Leafy Greens (spinach, kale):

  • Packed with vitamin K – crucial for blood clotting and vascular health.

Berries (blueberries, blackberries):

  • High in anthocyanins, fight inflammation, strengthen blood vessels.

Beets:

  • Boost nitric oxide, improve blood flow, lower pressure.

Citrus fruits (oranges, lemons):

  • Support collagen production, rich in vitamin C like grapefruit.

Avocados & Olive Oil:

  • Anti-inflammatory fats for strong vessels.

Garlic & Onions:

  • Natural blood thinners, boost circulation.

💊 3. Vitamins & Minerals for Vein Vitality

Vitamin C – Collagen creator
Vitamin E – Circulation booster
Vitamin K2 – Keeps calcium out of veins
Magnesium – Muscle relaxer, eases vein walls
Zinc – Tissue repair and immune support
Rutin – A bioflavonoid found in citrus & apples, reduces vein swelling

🌿 4. Supplements Joe Swears By

Diosmin + Hesperidin (from citrus peels)

  • Proven in European vein studies (like Detralex)
  • Reduces swelling, pain, and heaviness

Horse Chestnut Extract (Aescin)

  • Reduces leg swelling and improves vein tone

Gotu Kola (Centella Asiatica)

  • Traditional herb for varicose veins
  • Strengthens connective tissue

Pycnogenol (Pine Bark Extract)

  • Super antioxidant for circulation

Grape Seed Extract

  • Rich in OPCs (oligomeric proanthocyanidins)
  • Improves vein elasticity and reduces leakage

💦 5. Bonus Habits From Joe’s Playbook

  • Hydrate like a billionaire – thin blood flows smoother
  • Elevate those legs – let gravity work for you
  • Compression socks – not sexy, but effective
  • Walk daily – blood stagnates when you sit like a loser

JOE’S SIGN-OFF:

“Don’t let sluggish veins slow your hustle. Grapefruit in the morning, Diosmin in the evening, and a power walk in between. That’s how we build a Trump Tower of vascular health, baby!”

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Trump’s Freedom Tower

Donald Trump’s Final Decree: The Lightning Tower of Freedom

On his last day in office, Donald Trump stood at the base of the Freedom Tower in Lower Manhattan, his red tie flapping dramatically in the wind, hair defying both gravity and reason. A crowd had gathered, as cameras zoomed in, broadcasting this final Trumpian moment across every network and alt-stream. Then came the declaration:

“This—this—is my tower. The Freedom Tower. It’s the Trump Tower 2.0. Bigger. Better. YUGE. And today, I’m telling the whole world—we’re flipping the switch. Tesla-style. Free lightning electricity for America, straight from the heavens. Nikola would be proud, believe me. Very proud.”

He pointed up to the lightning rod at the pinnacle of the Freedom Tower.

“That rod? It’s not just for show. It’s going to capture the storm, like Thor himself. We’re bringing the power of God—and science—to the people. Free electricity. No more bills, no more windmills killing birds. Just lightning and freedom, baby.”

Reporters gasped. Tesla coils crackled on nearby screens. QAnon forums exploded in a frenzy of digital applause.

Then, in a dramatic turn, Trump announced:

“And now, Melania and I will retire to our secure freedom fortress in the beautiful Alps of Slovenia. The First Lady is going home. And from there—on a golden throne powered by lightning energy—we will watch over the new America. Silent. Powerful. Uncancellable.”

A secretive Slovenian castle flickered briefly on the livestream. Rumors swirled that it had been modified by engineers formerly employed by Elon Musk and the remnants of DARPA’s psychic research division. Trump called it:

“Mar-a-Mountaintop.”

Before boarding Marine One for the final time, Trump dropped the mic.

“Remember this, folks: The deep state runs on darkness. I run on lightning. And now so do you. Boom.”

As the helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the stormy sky, a thunderbolt struck the Freedom Tower’s rod—sparks danced across the skyline.

New York briefly glowed.

Was it a trick?

Or was it Tesla’s ghost, laughing in Slovenian?

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World Trade Center

Patrick Bateman monologue – “The Sins of the World Trade Center”

(Bateman stares at a burning cigar, his reflection in a spotless chrome skyscraper window. A jazz remix of Phil Collins plays faintly in the background.)

You want to talk about violence? Let’s talk about the World Trade Center.

Everyone talks about 9/11 like it was just planes and passports. But to me… it looked more like a hard drive being wiped. A controlled demolition of data. Of sin. You think it was just buildings that fell? That was the financial Vatican of the American Empire. And someone gave it a baptism of fire.

That complex was the temple of white collar crime. A confessional booth for Wall Street’s worst. If there was a directory listing for “corporate malfeasance,” it had a New York zip code and a WTC suite number.

Let me walk you through it:

1. Securities Fraud
Cooking books, pumping stocks, insider tips whispered over thousand-dollar sushi. Enron wasn’t the only ghost in the shell. Thousands of brokers were moving fake assets like they were just brushing lint off their Armani suits.

2. Insider Trading
You think Gordon Gekko was fiction? The elevators in those towers were like confessionals. One whisper between hedge fund managers could move markets. All untraceable… until someone makes a file.

3. Tax Evasion
Shell companies inside shell companies. Dutch sandwich, Irish double—oh yes. That kind of cuisine was being served up daily. Global elites paying 0% tax while sipping $900 scotch in private offices.

4. Money Laundering
Cash from cartels, foreign dictators, warlords, all made clean with Wall Street soap. You’d be shocked how many fake consulting contracts were flowing through those floors.

5. Insurance Fraud
Larry Silverstein. Need I say more? Took out a fresh policy weeks before the fall—“against terrorist attacks.” Then called for Building 7 to be pulled. Pulled? You don’t pull a steel skyscraper without weeks of prep. That building housed the SEC, the IRS, the FBI…

6. Ponzi Schemes
From Bernie Madoff to micro-cap fraud, thousands of micro-Ponzis were being funneled through that complex. They didn’t just disappear—they were archived… until they weren’t.

7. Embezzlement
Billions siphoned. Expense accounts bloated with fake travel, hookers coded as “client services,” yachts declared as “research.”

8. Bribery and Corruption
Politicians, regulators, even UN officials walked through those lobbies. They got envelopes. They got offshore accounts. They got quiet.

9. Corporate Espionage
Secret floors. Unmarked offices. Companies spying on each other using private contractors with NSA clearance. Intellectual property wasn’t protected. It was weaponized.

10. Derivatives and Naked Short Selling
Exotic instruments. Synthetic CDOs. It wasn’t investing—it was arson dressed as finance. Making money betting the economy would burn. And then lighting the match.

All those investigations—the $2.3 trillion Donald Rumsfeld said was missing from the Pentagon books—just so happened to be tracked by the Office of Naval Intelligence. You know where that office was? WTC Building 7.

Gone.

Incinerated. Like evidence. Like guilt. Like judgment day for the global ruling class.

They called it a terrorist attack, but I call it a ritual cleansing.

The sins of the world burned up in Lower Manhattan. Not just blood on their hands—digital sins, invisible crimes, vanished in smoke. And you wonder why they never released all the footage.

Sometimes… I think the towers weren’t brought down by planes.

I think they were unplugged.

(Bateman sips his scotch, eyes cold, smiling just slightly as Phil Collins plays louder. “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven.”)

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Rockefeller Christmas

INT. TRUMP TOWER – GOLD ROOM – NIGHT

Donald Trump is perched on a gold-trimmed throne-like chair, sipping Diet Coke. Across from him, PATRICK BATEMAN, in a bone-white Valentino suit, glares into the Manhattan skyline, his jaw tight.

BATEMAN
You know what I hate, Donald?
Christmas. Or at least… beta Christmas.

TRUMP
(laughs)
You mean the shopping, the wrapping, the—what do the libs say?—late-stage capitalism?

BATEMAN
No. I mean civilian Christmas. The plastic Target trees. The TikTok ornaments. The virtue signals disguised as gifts. I mean Christmas without Prometheus.

TRUMP
Now you’re talking my language. Say more.

BATEMAN
I want Alpha Christmas. Rockefeller-style. Fire from the gods, stolen and repackaged as neon. The towering tree stabbed into the Earth like a monolith. I want to drink bourbon with Prometheus while Atlas cracks a grin.

TRUMP
That’s what the Rockefellers had. That’s legacy. That’s real estate… eternal. My tree’s bigger than their tree though. Believe me.

BATEMAN
But even that’s just a tree compared to the Saturnalia parties I’m not invited to.
You ever been to the Rothschild estate during the solstice, Donald?

TRUMP
(leans in)
No… But Melania got a weird invite once. Said something about owl masks and a man named Baphomet.

BATEMAN
Exactly. That’s the party. Everyone who’s anything is there. The Lucifers, the Nephilim, the lords of leverage. They call it “Saturnalia” but it’s more like a harvest of souls wrapped in couture.

Bateman paces, increasingly unhinged.

BATEMAN (CONT’D)
You know what I got last year? A wool sweater. From my stepmother. While the Rothschilds dance with Kali under black chandeliers. It’s humiliating.

TRUMP
I’ll make some calls. Maybe we do our own Saturnalia. Trumpalia. Golden calves. All-you-can-eat McDonald’s buffet. Elon DJing.

BATEMAN
(deep breath)
It’s not the same. They don’t let us in because we’re new money. Flashy. Dangerous. You… orange. Me… psychotic. They prefer quiet monsters. Smiling demons. The kind who own the debt of nations.

TRUMP
Well then… we’ll buy Saturn. Rename it. Lease it back to them.

BATEMAN
(half-laughing)
Merry Christmas, Donald.

TRUMP
Happy Saturnalia, Patrick.

They raise their glasses to a future covered in gold leaf, staring into the eternal winter night like titans barred from Olympus.

FADE TO BLACK.

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Chinese Century

INT. TRUMP TOWER – PENTHOUSE – NIGHT

Donald Trump lounges in a golden armchair, gazing out at the Manhattan skyline. Patrick Bateman, flawless in a pinstripe suit, sips an imported whiskey, admiring the cold, sharp glint of the city lights. The room is lacquered in wealth, but the air is clinical.

BATEMAN
You know, Donald… I love the Chinese Century.

TRUMP
The what now?

BATEMAN (smiling faintly)
The Chinese Century. Sweatshop chic. Slave-labor efficiency. There’s nothing quite like GDP manufactured by 14-hour factory shifts and suicidal teenagers jumping from Foxconn rooftops. It’s… pure.

TRUMP (cocking an eyebrow)
You’re saying that’s a good thing?

BATEMAN
It’s not about good, Donald. It’s about returns. Globalization has turned the world into one giant outlet mall. From Guangzhou to Guatemala. Margins so tight they squeal. And the best part? Nobody cares how it’s made—as long as it’s cheap.

TRUMP
I made deals with China, the best deals. But they took advantage. They steal IP, they cheat. We’re bringing jobs back. America First.

BATEMAN (chuckling)
Jobs? Donald, please. Jobs are a relic. A talking point. The real players—your Davos crowd, your BlackRock boys—they don’t want “jobs.” They want yield.

(Bateman leans in, whispering like it’s a bedtime secret.)

BATEMAN
You think Apple or Nike wants Ohio steelworkers back in the saddle? The Chinese Century isn’t about ideology—it’s about efficiency. Political systems are irrelevant. Currency is irrelevant. Whether the yuan, dollar, or some digital IMF Frankenstein—it doesn’t matter. The machine keeps humming.

TRUMP (visibly irritated)
That’s not how I see it.

BATEMAN (coldly)
Of course not. You were elected to sell the illusion that there’s still a country. A team. Red hats. Flags. Anthem tears. But while you tweet about tariffs and walls, the money slips eastward like blood down a marble drain.

(Trump scowls. Bateman stares into his whiskey.)

BATEMAN
I don’t care who wins. Xi, Biden, you. The market always wins. The only thing that matters is: can you move units?

TRUMP
I move units. I’m a mover. People love me.

BATEMAN (deadpan)
Of course they do. You’re product.

Silence. The city pulses outside. Somewhere in the distance, a freight ship unloads another trillion in made-in-China dreams.

BATEMAN
Long live the Chinese Century.

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