White Knighting Miss Myanmar

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.

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Trump’s Full Transition

Trump:
“Lenny, you know what happened in Minneapolis, terrible, terrible. A trans shooter—people are shocked. Everybody’s talking about it. And I said, listen, God is the grand master of 3D printing. Nobody does creation better. He printed the whole universe—best job ever, tremendous detail.

Now the trans community, they want full transition. They say, ‘We want the whole thing, printed, finished.’ And I said, okay, let’s make a deal. You want a new body? Talk to God, He’s got the printer. The best printer. Or—if you don’t want to wait—go to Canada. Trudeau’s giving out printers for free. Like healthcare, but with plastic.”


Pope Lenny Belardo:
“Donald, your words are profane yet strangely theological. God is not a 3D printer. He is the mystery, the unprintable. You speak of bodies like they are toys to be manufactured, deals to be signed.

But the body, Donald, is not a toy. It is the temple of the Holy Spirit. And when a temple is wounded, it is not a machine that repairs it. It is love. Mercy. A grace you cannot patent, or print, or sell at a discount.”


Trump:
“Love is fine, Lenny, I’m not against love. People say I’m not loving—I am! I love winning, I love deals, I love America. And I love people who love me. But we need solutions, not sermons. You’ve got a big church, a lot of gold, a lot of power. Let’s put it to work. 3D print the temples better, stronger, faster. Everyone’s happy, nobody’s shooting. It’s a win-win.”


Pope Lenny:
“You want to replace miracles with machines. That is the temptation of every age. And yet the printer you worship will never give life eternal. Only God can do that. Do not mistake plastic for flesh, nor flesh for spirit.”



Pope Lenny Belardo:


“Donald… you are not entirely wrong. God has always given man the terrible freedom to choose. To choose love or hate, war or peace, even truth or lies. Perhaps even the body. We are not slaves of heaven. We are sons and daughters. And sons may choose their path.”


Trump:
“Exactly, Lenny. You see it now. Freedom. Choice. Nobody loves choice more than me. It’s beautiful. So let them choose their body. If they want to print a new one, let them. Why not? America has the technology. The above top secret flesh 3D printer—believe me, it’s waiting. Locked up in a Pentagon basement, humming like the Ark of the Covenant. They’ve shown me, incredible stuff. Like Xerox but for people. You wouldn’t believe it. The Vatican should get one too, maybe print a few extra popes when you get tired.”


Pope Lenny:
“The Lord is not Xerox, Donald. But I admit, the temptation is immense. To press a button and become what you dream… To step into a machine and emerge perfected. This is the serpent’s whisper in a digital age.”


Trump:
“Snake, printer, whatever—you call it temptation, I call it innovation. If Canada’s giving it out free, why shouldn’t we? America first, always. And if God’s the grand master of 3D printing, well, we’re just following His business plan. Big, beautiful business plan.”

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Making McDonald’s Great Again

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.”

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Trump Makes a Deal with the FBI

INT. FBI SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT

The rain pelts the windows. Inside, a dim desk lamp casts long shadows. Agent FOX MULDER sits across from DONALD TRUMP, who is slouched in his chair, hands folded like he’s at a high-stakes poker game.

MULDER
Mr. Trump… we can end this. But you need to tell me everything you know about the Rothschild Illuminati. Names, meetings, financial back channels—how deep it goes.

TRUMP
(leans forward)
Fox, you have no idea how deep it goes. They’re in the banks, the media, the governments… it’s like… the swamp, but global. Believe me, nobody’s seen a swamp like this.

MULDER
If you testify—under oath—I can drop all federal charges against you. In exchange, you and Melania will be relocated to Slovenia under FBI protection. You’ll stay there until we can confirm you’re safe.

TRUMP
Slovenia? Melania will like that. I’ll have to learn how to say “beautiful” in Slovenian. Probably already know it.

MULDER
This isn’t a vacation. The Illuminati won’t stop until they silence you. If you cooperate, you get a new life. If you don’t… you disappear.

Trump glances out the window. A flash of lightning illuminates the rain-streaked glass. For just a second, he sees the faint reflection of a man in a black fedora standing outside.

TRUMP
Alright, Fox. I’ll talk. But you better believe me—once I say what I know, the game changes. For everyone.

Mulder leans in, recorder ready.

MULDER
Then let’s change the game.

The lamp flickers. Somewhere outside, a car door slams.

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A Trump Christmas

SNL Sketch Script – “A Trump Christmas Carol”

[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!”

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Christian Bale’s Total Recall

Title: Christian Bale’s Total Recall: Confessions from Behind the Silver Screen

Christian Bale, in a hypothetical tell-all interview or dramatic monologue, opens up with haunting clarity, expressing what he calls a “total recall” of abuse endured throughout his Hollywood upbringing—not on-screen, but behind the scenes. He recounts moments where the sets of his films became ritual stages, controlled by powers more ancient and organized than any studio executive.


Scene Concept: “The Torch and the Gate”

Bale, seated alone in a dimly lit study, speaks directly to camera as though in a documentary or confession booth. A still of the Columbia Pictures logo fades in—the torch-bearing Goddess, robed in white, her torch burning unnaturally bright.

BALE (voice breaking):
“That torch… wasn’t just lighting the way for cinema. It was a lie. A signal. A beacon to something older. Something cold.”

He says the Columbia Goddess was a symbol whispered to him by handlers as a child actor—“She watches,” they told him. “You belong to her now.


Lion’s Gate and British Columbia

Bale then draws a line to Lion’s Gate, the film studio, and its spiritual name-twin: Lions Gate Bridge in Vancouver, British Columbia. He recounts a childhood trip there, allegedly under the guise of shooting or promotional tours, but which he now remembers as initiation rituals.

BALE:
“I walked through that Gate before I even understood what a lion was. I was told: You are the lamb now. But you’ll become the lion—if you obey.


The Messiah Deal: John Connor and the Bat

According to Bale, his most iconic roles—Batman and John Connor—were dangled before him like divine titles in a secret religion of Hollywood power brokers.

BALE:
“They said if I played Bateman in American Psycho, I’d inherit both mantles: the Dark Knight and the Savior. It was the final rite. They needed to know I could be monstrous.”

He describes the American Psycho role as a blood sacrifice to the screen, a ritual test of sociopathy, narcissism, and performance—not for the audience, but for them.


Reflection

In this imagined confessional or script, Bale is a tragic prophet—a victim and a vessel. He pulls back the curtain on Hollywood’s darker mythos: not just scandal, but spiritual warfare disguised as stardom.

BALE (closing his eyes):
“They gave me masks: Connor, Wayne, Bateman. But never a face. I remember now… I was promised light. All I got was the torch.”

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The Alpha King Returns

Title: “The Alpha King Returns”
GQ Exclusive Interview by Patrick Bateman
2026 | Mar-a-Lago, Florida


Introductory Note (Patrick Bateman, voiceover):
I’ve shaken hands with killers who wear Tom Ford. I’ve seen CEOs cry during deep-tissue massages. I’ve watched the world turn soft — “inclusive,” “empathetic,” “trauma-informed.” But in a time of therapy-speak and gender-neutral pronouns, one man refuses to kneel. He’s not a relic. He’s a revenant. The Alpha King has returned.


Scene: The Interview
Setting: Mar-a-Lago, post-apocalyptic Versailles. Gilded walls, tiger-print upholstery, Diet Coke chilled in crystal. Trump, older but unshaken, lounges in a gold chair shaped like a lion’s mouth. Patrick Bateman sits opposite, Moleskine open, Rolex glinting.


BATEMAN:
“Mr. President—”

TRUMP:
“Call me God-Emperor, if you want to be accurate. But okay, go ahead.”

BATEMAN:
“You’ve been accused of… a lot. Coup attempts. Drone strikes. Shadow pardons. Some say you’re the last openly psychopathic leader. How do you respond?”

TRUMP:
“Look, I don’t respond. I win. That’s what people don’t get. They’re busy crying about morality—I’m busy controlling outcomes. Did Lincoln get consent before suspending habeas corpus? No. He acted. I act. That’s the Alpha way.”

BATEMAN:
“Drone strike in Tehran. Black site in Nevada. Manhattan blackout during the CNN leak. All of it… vanished.”

TRUMP (smirking):
“Clean work. Cleaner than your business cards, Patrick. I had a guy—Polish kid—ran ops like it was Call of Duty. Zero civilian oversight. That’s how you maintain aura. That’s how kings do it.”

BATEMAN:
“You understand the Dark Triad. Narcissism. Machiavellianism. Psychopathy.”

TRUMP:
“I am the Triad. I made narcissism a growth industry. Machiavelli? Cute. I hire interns with sharper instincts. And psychopathy? That’s not a disorder, it’s an evolutionary advantage. That’s how wolves rise while sheep write blog posts.”


BATEMAN (writing furiously):
He speaks in the same rhythm as Reagan, but with the brutality of a Roman consul. Trump isn’t leading America. He’s remolding it. Not into a democracy — into a dynasty.


TRUMP:
“Bateman, when you kill someone on Fifth Avenue, and the stock market goes up, you don’t apologize. You trademark it. You sell the T-shirt.”

BATEMAN:
“Would you say love or fear is more powerful?”

TRUMP:
“I don’t care if they love me or fear me. As long as they obey. That’s what boys don’t get anymore. It’s not about being liked. It’s about being obeyed.”


Closing Note (Bateman, voiceover):
Trump didn’t blink during the interview. Not once. He stared through me like I was a painting he already owned. This wasn’t a politician. This was Julius Caesar in a red tie, resurrected through algorithms and grievance.

The Alpha King has returned. And this time, he isn’t asking permission.

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The Risks Christian Bale Took

The Risks Christian Bale Took to Play Patrick Bateman: A Role That Strained Every Relationship He Ever Had

When American Psycho was released in 2000, it was not just a film—it was a cultural moment that challenged America’s comfort with capitalism, masculinity, and violence. At its core was a performance so unnervingly precise that it blurred the line between character and actor. Christian Bale’s portrayal of Patrick Bateman was not only transformative—it was radioactive. So convincing was Bale in the role of a narcissistic, sociopathic Wall Street killer that the stain of Bateman seemed to cling to him long after the cameras stopped rolling. Though Christian Bale and Patrick Bateman are nothing alike, the risks Bale took to inhabit this monstrous persona have arguably strained every relationship he has ever had, both professional and personal. His role became emblematic of a larger American truth: American Psycho is less about reality than it is about illusion—another disturbing chapter in America’s empire of illusion, where performance is mistaken for truth, and entertainment for authenticity.

The Method and the Madness

To prepare for the role, Christian Bale famously immersed himself in the character to an extreme degree. Drawing from Tom Cruise’s eerily empty charisma, Bale sculpted Bateman’s mask: a sleek, smiling predator who performs humanity rather than experiences it. Bale starved himself to maintain Bateman’s chiseled physique. He spoke in Bateman’s voice off-set. He remained emotionally distant from castmates to keep the sociopathic edge sharp. By his own admission, he adopted Bateman’s vanity and icy detachment, sometimes even confusing himself in the mirror. This level of method acting required not only an erasure of his natural self but a kind of self-inflicted trauma—an abandonment of empathy to simulate psychopathy.

These choices had consequences. Friends and family reportedly found Bale unrecognizable, not just physically but psychologically. His intensity alienated collaborators. He would later recount that during the filming, people who knew him well found him unsettling, as though they were speaking to someone else entirely. He had become a vessel for a character who had no capacity for love, kindness, or honesty. It wasn’t acting—it was transfiguration.

The Shadow That Followed

Though the film has since become a cult classic, and Bale has gone on to great success, the shadow of Bateman still follows him. Directors typecast him as emotionally volatile. Audiences often confuse the man with the mask. His on-set outbursts—such as the infamous Terminator: Salvation meltdown—are seized upon as “proof” that perhaps the Bateman within never fully left. In interviews, Bale often seems guarded, aware that any hint of cruelty will be exaggerated through the Bateman lens. It is not difficult to imagine how this lingering suspicion could impact his relationships—with producers, with the press, and even with his own family.

And how could it not? When your most iconic role is that of a man who wears the skin of a respectable citizen while murdering the vulnerable, trust becomes elusive. Intimacy is harder to achieve when people project your character’s malevolence onto your real self. Bale paid a price for embodying evil too well: he became its ambassador in the public eye.

Illusion, Not Reality

The real irony of American Psycho is that it was never meant to be real. The film is an exercise in surrealism, satire, and critique. Patrick Bateman may not have killed anyone at all; he may be a figment of America’s fever dream—a dark parody of Wall Street excess and media shallowness. And yet, the illusion was so complete that audiences often missed the satire entirely. Instead of seeing Bateman as a monstrous exaggeration of Reagan-era capitalism, many mistook him for a symbol of aspirational masculinity, even idolizing his style and discipline.

This speaks to a deeper problem: America’s inability to distinguish illusion from reality. In a country where reality TV stars become presidents, where likes and followers replace genuine relationships, American Psycho was not a horror story—it was a mirror. Bale, who was simply holding up that mirror, became confused with the reflection. In taking this role, he exposed not just the underbelly of American culture, but also the cost of great acting in an age where illusion is everything.

Conclusion

Christian Bale is not Patrick Bateman. He is a disciplined, deeply intelligent actor who took a terrifying risk to hold up a mirror to American society. In doing so, he strained his own sense of self and destabilized his connections with others. His portrayal of Bateman is a triumph of acting—but it also serves as a cautionary tale. In a culture where performance is mistaken for reality, and image is everything, even the most talented actors can become trapped in the illusions they help create. American Psycho is not reality. It is a grotesque fantasy born from the excesses of capitalism. But the consequences for those who bring such illusions to life—like Christian Bale—are painfully real.

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Pro Trump Messaging FEES

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.

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Abilify Agitation

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.

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