“Barack Obama is nothing like President Camacho from Idiocracy, Nelly. People can joke all they want, but Obama ordered the mission that stopped Osama bin Laden. Not with monster trucks and machine guns — with intelligence, planning, and, sure… maybe a little help from an average Joe keeping score from the cheap seats.”
Joe smirks.
“History’s funny like that. The most wanted man in the world brought down under President Obama, while regular people sit at home arguing online, convinced they could run the Situation Room better. President Camacho had explosions. Obama had briefings, drones, and Navy SEALs.”
Nelly raises an eyebrow. “And where does the ‘average Joe’ fit into this story?”
Joe taps his chest dramatically.
“Moral support, Nelly. Every commander-in-chief needs an unpaid armchair strategist somewhere in the empire.”
The rain streaks down the big windows. NELLY FURTADO, casual in a hoodie and beanie, sits across from JOE — regular guy, flannel shirt, tired but honest eyes. Two untouched lattes between them.
NELLY (leaning in, warm smile) Joe… you’re a regular guy. There’s no way around it. And that’s okay. That’s beautiful, actually.
JOE (small laugh) Thanks? I think.
NELLY All you have to do is bless Israel. That’s it. Genuflect a little. Stand up for her like the Sunday TV preachers do. Pastor Hagee built everything on it — money, influence, favor. “I will bless those who bless you.” It works, Joe. You could have that too. Financial success. Open doors. All of it.
She reaches across the table, gentle but intense.
NELLY (CONT’D) You don’t have to become a televangelist. Just make the choice in your heart. Bless her. Support her. The rest flows from there. I’m telling you this because I see something in you. Don’t stay stuck, Joe.
JOE (quiet, but firm — he sits back) Nelly… I appreciate you looking out for me. I really do. But I’m not doing that.
NELLY (confused) What do you mean?
JOE I’m not gonna bless Israel just so the universe cuts me a check. That’s not how I want to live. I’m not kneeling for money or “favor” or whatever prosperity gospel remix this is.
(beat, looking her in the eyes) I’ve got my own principles. My own conscience. I’m not trading them for a shot at Pastor Hagee’s lifestyle. Regular guy or not, I’m not for sale like that.
NELLY (soft, almost pleading) It’s not about selling out. It’s about alignment. Stepping into the blessing lane.
JOE (shakes his head, calm but resolute) My lane doesn’t go through genuflecting to any nation-state for personal gain. I’ll stand on what I actually believe — not what pays better. If that means staying regular forever… then I guess I’m regular forever.
He stands up, pulls on his jacket.
JOE (CONT’D) Thanks for the coffee, Nelly. And the song about the bird still slaps. But I’m not blessing Israel on command. Not today. Not ever.
Joe walks out into the rain. Nelly watches him go, a mix of surprise and respect on her face.
Yugo Joe looked at Nelly over a tiny cup of coffee that seemed far too strong for civilized society.
“Nelly,” he said, “you should come to Croatia. Or at least to Medjugorje. The place runs on prayer, stories, candles, and people looking for something bigger than themselves.”
Nelly smiled cautiously. “You make it sound like an airport terminal for mystics.”
Joe pointed a finger.
“Exactly! And listen — the six Medjugorje seers? Their story brought pilgrims from everywhere. Believers, doubters, curious tourists, exhausted people carrying heavy lives. Lovers of Gospa, you could say.”
Nelly tilted her head. “Lovers of Gospa?”
“People devoted to Nossa Senhora. People who pray. People searching. People who want mercy, meaning, maybe even a miracle.”
The church bells sounded faintly in the distance.
“In our story,” Joe continued, “the six seers are expecting not celebrities, not influencers — but ordinary lovers of Gospa. The woman with the rosary worn smooth from use. The guy who hasn’t prayed in twenty years but walks up the hill anyway. The skeptic who says, ‘I’m just here for cultural reasons,’ and somehow ends up lighting a candle.”
Nelly laughed softly.
“So you’re recruiting me into a pilgrimage?”
Joe shrugged dramatically.
“I’m inviting you into a conversation older than both of us. Canada says, ‘Keep spirituality polite and personal.’ The Balkans say, ‘Pull up a chair, argue theology, drink coffee, and tell us your story.’”
“And what if people think I’m strange?”
Joe grinned.
“In the Balkans? Strange is practically a citizenship category.”
