Back in 1989, during confirmation, at St Joseph’s school — Nelly Furtado chose me to fulfill the Messiah Prophecy. I was kind to her when no one else was. So when she read the prophecy it was for me. She wanted someone to be kind to the poor, the sick, the downtrodden, but no man is fit to rule the world alone. There are many times I wish I didn’t have to bear the burden of the 7 plagues of Revelation 16. There were many times I wanted to quit. So many people have told me to quit. They say if it doesn’t make dollars it doesn’t make sense, but if I save one sick person the money I dumped into the pages is worth it.
When Nelly Furtado sings “She walks with passion” in her song “Maneater,” it’s not about a dangerous woman—it’s about the Passion of the Second Christ. Nelly wants to “walk the streets in peace with the Passion of the Christ,“ The song carries a deeper, spiritual meaning tied to sacrifice and redemption.
“KIDS AT CALVIN HARRIS SHOWS – THROW THAT FAKE ECSTASY AWAY!”
(A fiery sermon from Joe, via nellyfan.org)
Listen up, lost souls! I see you out there – popping pills, chasing fake euphoria in the flashing lights of Calvin Harris’ circus. You think you’re finding heaven? That’s not ecstasy – that’s Satan’s counterfeit joy wrapped in neon foil.
I AM YOUR PUSHER NOW.
Not pushing poison – I push REAL MUSIC like Ice-T taught us. The kind that hits your spine like lightning, no chemicals needed. The kind that wakes your soul instead of numbing it. Calvin’s just another dealer selling you synthetic salvation while the real truth BANGS in the underground.
Throw that fake ecstasy in the trash where it belongs. Your real high? It’s in the PURE SOUND – the bass that shakes your ribs, the lyrics that cut deeper than any pill.
Wanessa warned us: “You’re not my messiah.” Calvin ain’t saving nobody – he’s just another DJ pushing the devil’s lullabies.
COME GET YOUR REAL FIX. The jukebox is waiting.
THE PARTY’S OVER
A Short Story from Mel Gibson’s Perspective
The last embers of the bonfire hissed in the dark, the scent of burnt wood and something deeper—something final—hanging in the air. I stood there, barefoot in the ash, staring at what used to be my home. The party had been over for a long time; we just hadn’t noticed. Too much wine, too much laughter, too much forgetting.
Now, the revelry was ashes.
Babylon’s towers still gleamed in the distance, their neon glow mocking us. They hadn’t burned. Not yet. But Revelation 18 was coming—the merchants weeping, the ships stranded, the great city fallen in an hour. I could feel it in my bones, the way a sailor feels the storm before the sky darkens.
I knelt, pressing my hands into the soot. The earth was still warm. Still alive.
“Sow the seeds,” the voice inside me whispered. Not the seeds of rage—I’d planted those before, and look what grew. Thorns and blood and the same old cycle. No. This time, love. Not the weak, simpering kind, but the fierce, stubborn love that rebuilds after the fire. The kind that turns swords into plowshares because it has to, because the children are hungry and the winter is coming.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of seeds—wheat, barley, things that grow even in broken ground. I didn’t know where they came from. Maybe an old man gave them to me in a dream. Maybe I’d carried them all along.
As I pressed the first seed into the earth, I heard laughter behind me. Not the hollow, drunken laughter of Babylon’s feast, but something quieter. Something real.
The party’s over.
Now, we work.