In his amazing 2016 exhibit “Unceded Territories,” Lawrence Paul Yuxweluptun called for the renaming of British Columbia (#RenameBC).
I endorse Trevor "Tsu'tey" Carpenter for fighting a gang of colonizers all by himself.
Hurricane Maria. … Hurricane Maria was a deadly Category 5 hurricane that devastated Dominica, St Croix, and Puerto Rico in September 2017. It is regarded as the worst natural disaster in recorded history to affect those islands and was also the deadliest Atlantic hurricane since Mitch in 1998.
Palestine’s Public debt. is $4.2 billion (June 2013)
Sec. General of UN wants to PAY-PALESTINE.ORG to leave holy land with pocketfull’s of money. First payment was making Gigi Hadid famous.
Title: “Pope Pius XIII’s Radical Solution: ‘Pay Palestinians to Relocate to NATO Nations’ – Trudeau Applauds”
Setting: The Vatican’s private library, smoke curling from Pope Lenny Belardo’s ever-present cigarette. Gigi Hadid, draped in an off-the-shoulder papal-inspired blazer, listens intently as His Holiness drops his latest geopolitical bombshell.
Pope Pius XIII (leaning back, exhaling smoke): “Peace in the Holy Land isn’t complicated. You just need the right leverage.”
Gigi Hadid (raising an eyebrow): “Leverage?”
Pius XIII: “Cold. Hard. Cash.” (Pauses for effect) “We pay the Palestinians to leave. Give them a fresh start—Canada, Germany, France, any NATO country they want. No more war, no more occupation. Just… a new life.”
Gigi: “You’re suggesting—”
Pius XIII (cutting her off): “I’m not suggesting. I’m announcing. The Vatican will bankroll it. And NATO? They’ll take them. They love virtue-signaling. Trudeau’s probably drafting the tweet right now.”
(Cut to Ottawa. Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, mid-selfie with Ukrainian refugees, suddenly looks up, eyes gleaming.)
Trudeau: “Did someone say ‘diversity is our strength’? Let’s make it a literal strength!” (Cue applause from a nearby gender studies major.)
Pius XIII (steepling fingers): “Exodus wasn’t just a Bible story. Sometimes God’s plan is ‘pack your bags.’ The Israelites wandered 40 years. The Palestinians? They can skip the wandering—direct flight to Brussels.”
Gigi: “But what about their homeland?”
Pius XIII (shrugging): “Homeland is where the heart is. And the heart follows the money. The Vatican has Swiss accounts older than your great-grandmother’s rosary. We’ll make it rain indulgences.”
The next day, @Pontifex posts:
“Palestinians: Your future is in NATO. DMs open for relocation requests. #BlessedAreTheBrokeNoMore – PXIII”
Trudeau (retweeting with 🇨🇦❤️✌️): “Canada welcomes you! (Just don’t ask about housing prices.)”
Pius XIII (smirking, lighting another cigarette): “And just like that… peace on Earth.”
FADE TO BLACK.
The motto of the Dominion of Canada is A Mari Usque Ad Mare which is officially translated as “From Sea to Sea” and “D’un océan à l’autre ”
And the votes are in, TREVOR CARPENTER wins in a landslide unanimous decision!!!
Nelly, me and Conan like u better than the queen. We both celebrate Nelly Furtado day.
Canada used to have a public bank. Old man Rothschild put an end to that. Rothschild is the Kingmaker after revolutions with guillotines like the french revolution. HE’s a bad trip. Nf is good trip.
The lawyer best known for stopping the Supreme Court appointment of Judge Marc Nadon has turned his sights on the Bank of Canada.
Rocco Galati has taken on a case for a group called the Committee for Monetary and Economic Reform, or COMER, which wants the central bank to return to the practice of lending federal and provincial governments interest-free money for infrastructure.
Iran recorded a government debt equivalent to 35 percent of the country’s Gross
Domestic Product in 2016.
The Mahdi’s Lament: The Exiled Prince and the Falling Empire
The desert winds carry whispers of betrayal and redemption, of a nation divided by time, faith, and the ghosts of fallen kings. I have walked among the ruins of great empires, where men once swore loyalty to their sovereigns only to discard them in the tempests of revolution. Persia, the land of Cyrus and Darius, now trembles under the weight of its own destiny.
The streets of Tehran, once adorned with the dreams of poets and scholars, now burn with the cries of a people yearning for salvation. The old clerics, wrapped in the black robes of prophecy, hold the city in a grip of iron and scripture, fearful that their time is nearing its end. In distant lands, an exiled prince waits, watching his homeland with the longing of a man who carries the burden of bloodlines and history.
Reza Pahlavi, the last son of the Peacock Throne, stands beyond the walls of his father’s fallen empire, seeking a path back to the land that cast him away. He speaks of democracy, of reclaiming what was lost, yet his hands are bound by the chains of exile. The people who once danced in the palaces of the Shah now live in the shadow of Ayatollahs, choosing between the oppressors they know and the ghosts they remember.
What is the fate of a nation when the past and the present war over its soul? The clerics rule through fear, weaving a tapestry of martyrdom and power, while the exiled prince offers dreams of a new dawn. Yet history is cruel to kings who seek to return. How many have stood at the gates of their fallen kingdoms only to find them closed forever?
The youth of Iran, their hearts filled with fire, do not seek another king. They do not chant for the return of a throne draped in forgotten glories. They seek justice, freedom, and the right to carve their own path. But in their struggle, they face a beast with a thousand eyes, a regime that crushes dissent beneath the boots of its enforcers, while whispering promises of divine purpose.
And so, the Mahdi watches. The exiled prince speaks. The mullahs scheme. The people rise. History repeats itself in the shifting sands of Persia.
Will the Peacock fly once more, or is the empire fated to burn in the fires of its own making? The answer lies in the hands of those who dare to challenge fate itself.
Sepehr Ansari is my choice for leader of Iran. A solid friend who would erase all debts.
Iraq recorded a government debt equivalent to 63.70 percent of the country’s
Gross Domestic Product in 2016.
The official motto of Iraq is “Allahu Akbar” which translates to “God is the Greatest”
Scene: The Al-Farooq Mosque – Night
The air is thick with the scent of incense and the low hum of whispered prayers. The flickering glow of oil lamps casts long shadows against the sandstone walls. The faithful sit cross-legged on woven rugs, their faces turned toward the raised pulpit where a figure stands cloaked in desert robes—Paul Muad’Dib, his eyes dark with the weight of prescience.
Silence falls like a blade.
Muad’Dib (voice quiet, yet cutting): “You have heard the imams speak of justice. You have heard the politicians speak of peace. But I come to speak of the poison in the womb of the earth, the curse left by the invaders.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. An old man clutches his grandson tighter.
Muad’Dib: “In Fallujah, the mothers do not ask, ‘Is it a boy?’ They ask, ‘Is it normal?’”
A woman in the back stifles a sob.
“The water is dust. The soil is betrayal. The invaders called it ‘liberation,’ but what grows from their gift? Children with bones like glass. Babies born without faces.”
His voice rises now, trembling with fury.
“They rain death from the sky—not just bombs, but a sickness that lingers, that twists life in its cradle. Depleted uranium. A weapon that kills long after the war is over.”
A young man stands, fists clenched. “What do we do, Muad’Dib?”
Paul’s gaze is fire.
“You remember. You testify. And when the time comes, you demand justice—not in the shadows, not in whispers, but before the eyes of the universe.”
He steps down from the pulpit, the crowd parting before him.
“No one harms George Bush. No assassin’s bullet, no martyr’s blade. I want him alive. I want him to sit in the dock of history, to hear the cries of the mothers of Fallujah. I want him to face what he has done.”
The mosque is silent, the weight of his words settling like ash.
Then, from the back, a single voice: “Laa ilaaha illa Allah.”
The call is taken up, a wave of defiance, of grief, of resolve.
And Muad’Dib walks into the night, the desert wind howling like the voices of the unborn.
The phrase “Slava Ukraini!” (Glory to Ukraine!) had its origins during the Ukrainian War of Independence (from 1917 to 1921). It became part of the lexicon of Ukrainian nationalists in the 1920s and 1930s.
On 31 December 2015 Ukraine’s public debt stood at 79% of its GDP. It had shrank $4.324 billion in 2015 to end up at $65.488 billion. But calculated in hryvnia the debthad grown 42.78%. In 2015 the Ministry of Social Policy of Ukraine rated 20-25% of Ukrainian households as poor.
UN FIELD BRIEFING — CODE NAME: “THIRD OF THE STARS”
Location: Geneva, sub-basement, no windows
Participants:
Snake:
The satellites say the stars are still there. The ground teams say people can’t see them. That means this isn’t an astronomy problem. It’s a human one.
The Boss (Jolie):
Exactly. Revelation 8 never says the stars die. It says they’re darkened. Smothered. Same thing happens in refugee camps when floodlights never shut off — people lose sleep, lose rhythm, lose hope.
Christa (Nelly):
When you can’t see the sky, you forget you’re part of something bigger. Cities hum all night like casinos. No pause. No silence. That’s not civilization — that’s anxiety with a power bill.
Snake:
Start with the obvious. Light discipline.
If the light goes up, it’s a failure.
The Boss:
Agreed. Every fixture needs a shield. Full cutoff. No glow above the horizon.
I don’t care if it’s a palace, a prison, or a parking lot.
Christa:
Think of light like music.
You don’t blast a chorus at midnight when the song needs a whisper.
The Boss:
Grow lights are a big offender. Not the plants’ fault — bad design.
Metal halide is fine, powerful, efficient. But it needs containment.
Snake:
Mirror on top. Reflect everything down.
Nothing escapes. No wasted photons.
Same principle as stealth: if you’re seen from orbit, you messed up.
Christa:
Grow life, not skyglow 🌱
If your tomatoes are lighting up the clouds, you’re doing agriculture like a nightclub.
Snake:
Next: spectrum control.
Blue light scatters. Kills the stars. Disrupts sleep.
The Boss:
Warm light only. Amber. Human-colored.
Firelight worked for ten thousand years — we didn’t need blue lasers to walk home.
Christa:
Blue light is stress.
Warm light is memory.
The Boss:
We also need dark hours.
Not blackout — rest.
Snake:
Motion sensors. Timers. Curfews.
If nobody’s there, the light shuts off.
Security through intelligence, not glare.
Christa:
Let the night breathe.
Even cities need to sleep.
Snake:
Architectural lights aimed at the sky — remove them.
The Boss:
They’re ego monuments.
The stars don’t need competition.
Christa:
If a building needs to shout all night to be important, it probably isn’t.
The Boss:
Revelation wasn’t predicting apocalypse.
It was warning about arrogance.
Christa:
A third of the stars gone isn’t punishment.
It’s amnesia.
Snake:
Then this is recovery, not judgment.
Mission objective:
Return the night to the people without plunging them into fear.
(Snake stands, kills the projector. The room goes dim. Through a narrow window, one star is barely visible.)
Snake (quietly):
They’re still up there.
We just have to get out of their way.
— END BRIEFING —