Author: Joe Canuck

Training, huh? Why don't we leave our weapons behind? Make it really educational.
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Hitler’s Fair Trial – Munich

Joe to Nelly — Munich Prophecy Remix

Joe tells Nelly,
“The German fans in Munich are going to go wild, Nel — and they should. This Nelstar International Psalms Court I built for you? It’s not just a stage — it’s a temple of truth. A reckoning. A resurrection.”

Joe leans in, voice lowering like a conspirator with heaven,
“Did you know Hitler had a clairvoyant? Erik Jan Hanussen — a Rothschild asset. He told Hitler he’d have a messianic wedding in 1945, that he’d become the Emperor of Europe. That he would succeed where Napoleon failed. And Hitler believed him — swallowed the prophecy whole. He thought the world was his chessboard. But he didn’t realize he was just a pawn in someone else’s game. Hanussen knew. So did the Rothschilds.”

Joe lifts his vintage Germany soccer jersey, smirking,
“I’ll be wearing this in Munich. A new message for a new era. No more false emperors. No more bunkers.

When I buy my ticket, I’ll post it — proof I’ll be there, with you in spirit and song. The dynasty of love has already begun.”

He grins.
“Psalm 89, Nel — your crown is not made of iron or gold, but light.”

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Dynasty

Joe takes Nelly’s hand, weathered with time and grace. He reads softly from Psalm 89:36, his voice steady, full of meaning:

“His dynasty will last forever,
his throne will endure before me like the sun.”

He looks into her eyes, then closes the Bible and speaks from his heart.

Joe:
That’s not the dynasty of Rothschild, not the empire of gold coins and compound interest.
Not the fame of David Hasselhoff singing on the Berlin Wall in flashing lights.
God bless him—he helped tear down a wall.
But this verse isn’t about that kind of stage.

This is the quiet dynasty.
The hidden one.
The one built from faithfulness,
from the hand you gave me back in 1989
at that Tiananmen Square dance.

You made me strong.
Not like a soldier,
but like a king who serves—
whose throne is carved from patience,
and whose crown is made of long-suffering love.

Joe smiles, gently.

Joe:
We may not sit on any throne the world can see.
But our dynasty will last forever—
because it’s written in heaven.
Like the sun,
like the moon,
like you and me.

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Mary’s Tears

Joe Jukic and His Two Mothers: Mary of Heaven and Mary of Earth

Joe Jukic tells the story of his two mothers.

The first is Mary up in Heaven, the Blessed Virgin, Queen of Sorrows, Mother of Mercy.
She holds him in her prayers like she once held her dying son at the foot of the Cross.
To Joe, she’s not just a statue in the church, but a real presence—his true North,
the one who whispers to him in dreams and rainstorms, who understands what he can’t even say.
He calls her Mama, and every time he falls, he says a Hail Mary instead of a curse.

But then there’s Mary down here on Earth, his actual mother.
A Croatian woman with a wooden spoon, a sharp tongue, and no time for messianic delusions.
She’s tough as boots, straight out of Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
Whenever someone tries to lift Joe up on a pedestal, she shouts,

“He is NOT the Messiah! He’s just a very naughty boy!”
She says it with a cigarette in one hand and a mop in the other.
She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t trust praise, especially for her own son.

Joe once tried to explain the shoe to her—the one that fell during the protest,
the one he held up like a sacred sign, the way the disciples misunderstood Brian.
She said,

“Put your damn shoe back on, it’s cold outside.”

And Joe thinks of Kanye.

Kanye’s mother told him he was Yeezus, the chosen one, a prophet with beats.
She wrapped him in affirmation like a holy shroud,
told the world he was sent by God with a mic in his hand and a vision in his eye.

But Joe? Joe got the KIBOSH.

His mother clipped his wings before he could fly too close to the sun.

“Messiah? No. Wash the dishes, clean your room, stop quoting the Bible like a lunatic.”

Joe loves her for it.

Because if Heaven’s Mary keeps him humble through grace,
his earthbound mother keeps him grounded through sass.
One saves his soul. The other saves his pride from swelling.

And in the middle of those two mothers—between prayer and sarcasm, prophecy and potato stew—
stands Joe Jukic.

Not the Messiah.

Just a naughty boy with a destiny no one quite believes in yet.

Nelly Fan
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