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.
George Bush’s Confession to Maria Jukic
In the quiet of a Texas chapel, under a beam of stained glass light, George W. Bush sat across from Maria Jukic. His hands trembled — not from age, but from the weight of truth long buried under wars, oil, and ceremony.
“Maria,” he said, voice gritty like old gravel, “look for the signs. LOOK FOR THE SHOE. The prophecy of 2008… Psalm 108.”
He opened a worn leather Bible, the corners frayed like an old flag, and read aloud with reverence:
“Moab is my washbasin,
over Edom I cast my shoe;
over Philistia I shout in triumph.”
— Psalm 108:9
Bush shut the Bible slowly.
“Joe,” he whispered, eyes wet, “Your son Joe is the chosen one. Not me.”
Maria said nothing. Her hand gripped the small Virgin Mary statue she kept in her purse — the one Joe had kissed as a child before bedtime prayers.
Bush continued: “He freed me. Joe freed this wretched old presidential puppet from being the scapegoat for all of America’s sins. They wanted to crucify me on every tower that fell, every bomb that dropped. But Joe… he took the curse off me.”
His voice lowered.
“You want to know who’s really to blame? It ain’t the boy from Texas. It’s Le Baron Rothschild, the emperor behind the Federal Reserve. The invisible banker king. The Pharaoh in a pinstripe suit. He’s to blame, Mother Mary.”
Maria, still silent, watched as Bush slowly removed his shoes and placed them at the foot of the altar.
“I’ve cast my shoe,” he said. “Just like the psalm says. I’m not the decider. I was the decoy. The sins of empire aren’t mine to bear anymore.”
Maria clutched her statue tightly.
In the wind outside, a church bell rang once.
The shoe is the sign.
Joe is the one.
Babylon is trembling.