Donald Trump’s Real Estate Fire Sale: Goodbye Suburbia, Hello High-Density Living
The morning after the inferno that swept through Los Angeles, Donald Trump held a press conference from a hastily assembled stage at the edge of what was once a sprawling suburban neighborhood. Behind him, smoke still rose from the ashes of single-family homes, their remnants a stark reminder of the fire’s fury. Trump, however, looked unfazed, his trademark confidence on full display.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, gesturing to the scorched landscape behind him, “we are witnessing the end of an era. The single-family home—great idea, lovely idea—is no longer sustainable. It’s time for something new, something big, something bold. And folks, I’m the guy to deliver it.”
The crowd, a mix of displaced homeowners, reporters, and curious onlookers, murmured in confusion.
Trump raised his hands for silence. “We’re talking high-density housing, folks. Beautiful towers, state-of-the-art apartments, with the best amenities you’ve ever seen. Think Trump Tower, but for the people. Affordable luxury. No more boring houses with tiny yards. You’ll have rooftop pools, gyms, and maybe even gold-plated elevators. The American Dream 2.0!”
He paused, his grin widening. “And guess what? The insurance payouts are going to make this happen. We’ll rebuild faster, better, and smarter. Forget Hollywood’s whining celebrities—they’ve had their mansions for too long. It’s time for real Americans to live like kings and queens.”
The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and boos, but Trump pressed on, undeterred.
“And speaking of Hollywood,” he said, his tone turning sharper, “let me tell you something about those liberal elites. They’re the worst. The absolute worst. They lecture you about climate change while flying private jets to their beachfront mansions. Hypocrites, all of them!”
Trump leaned into the microphone, his voice dripping with disdain. “You know what I say? Good riddance. If they don’t like my high-density housing, they can move to Canada. I hear Vancouver’s lovely this time of year.”
A reporter raised her hand. “Mr. Trump, do you think this is the right time to be talking about profit and redevelopment, given the devastation here?”
Trump shot her a look. “Sweetheart, this is the perfect time. The fire was a tragedy, no doubt about it. But you don’t let a tragedy go to waste. That’s how you win. That’s how America wins. We rebuild, we make it bigger, better, and we leave the old ways behind. Suburbia is dead. Long live Trump Heights!”
The press conference ended with Trump unveiling a slick promotional video for his new vision: glittering skyscrapers rising from the ashes of Los Angeles, marketed as the future of urban living.
As Trump left the stage, the crowd was left to grapple with the reality of his words. For some, it was a bold new beginning. For others, it was the end of everything they held dear.
And for Trump, it was just another deal—a chance to reshape the landscape, rake in profits, and take one last jab at the Hollywood elites he loved to hate.
Immortan Joe, Mel Gibson, and the Shepherds of Living Water
Immortan Joe stood atop the charred remains of what had once been his grand “house of straw,” a sprawling mansion in the hills, now reduced to ashes. The fire had consumed it all, but Joe, adorned in his signature respirator and armor, seemed unbothered. Beside him, Mel Gibson, rugged and contemplative, gazed out at the smoky horizon.
“You see, Mel,” Joe began, his voice a rasping growl, “this house was never meant to last. Straw burns fast, but it’s light. It’s easy. I built it knowing it could fall, just like everything else in this world. But what rises from ashes is what truly matters.”
Mel nodded, his gaze distant. “And what do you plan to build now, Joe? Another house of straw? Or something stronger?”
Joe chuckled darkly. “Not straw this time, Mel. Not even bricks. I’m done with houses. Vancouver taught me something.”
Mel turned to him, curious. “Vancouver?”
Joe nodded, gesturing to the north. “A city where water falls from the sky most of the year. They don’t resent its absence because they don’t know its absence. They don’t understand the thirst that drives men mad. But the stars—those Hollywood dreamers—they know. They’ve lived in deserts of their own making. They chase fountains that run dry.”
At that moment, Nelly and Joe—”Jelly,” as they’d come to be known—emerged from the shadows. Nelly held a dandelion in her hand, its yellow petals a defiant splash of color against the gray ruins. Joe carried a flask of water, a symbol of hope.
“We don’t hate the stars,” Nelly said, her voice soft but firm. “We love them. They’re lost, yes, but not beyond saving. They need shepherds, not scorn.”
Mel raised an eyebrow. “Shepherds?”
Joe, the younger, nodded. “Shepherds to lead them to springs of living water. To show them that what they’ve been chasing—fame, power, immortality—was never the answer. The water they need isn’t bottled in gold or locked behind gates. It’s free, abundant, and it heals.”
Immortan Joe laughed, a sound both mocking and intrigued. “And you think you can save them? The stars? They don’t want salvation. They want adoration. They want more of the same.”
Nelly stepped forward, holding out the dandelion. “Maybe. But even weeds can bloom in the desert. And even the brightest stars need a guide when the night gets too dark.”
Mel smiled faintly, his weathered face softening. “Springs of living water, huh? Sounds like a better plan than straw houses and fire sales.”
Immortan Joe tilted his head, considering their words. “Fine,” he said finally. “Lead your stars. But when they falter—and they will—I’ll be here, building my next empire, one way or another.”
As the group turned to leave, Nelly and Joe exchanged a glance. They knew the path ahead wouldn’t be easy, but they also knew the power of water to quench even the deepest thirst. The stars would come, one by one, drawn not by force, but by the promise of something real—something eternal.
And in the ruins of what once was, the first seeds of a new beginning were sown.
Donald Trump, Mel Gibson, and the MAGA Entertainment Debate
Donald Trump stood at the podium of his latest rally, the crowd roaring with anticipation. Behind him, a massive screen played clips of Kid Rock performing, his energy electric, his presence larger than life. Trump basked in the adoration, his signature grin plastered across his face.
“Let me tell you something, folks,” Trump began, his voice booming over the cheers. “People are saying, ‘Mr. Trump, who’s going to entertain the MAGA movement? Who’s going to be the voice of the people?’ And I’ll tell you who—Kid Rock! The guy’s a legend, an icon, a real American patriot. He’s got the energy, the fire, the spirit. He’s young, he’s virile, and he’s exactly what we need.”
The crowd erupted, chanting “Kid Rock! Kid Rock!”
Trump raised a hand to quiet them. “Now, don’t get me wrong, Mel Gibson’s a good guy. A great guy, actually. He made Braveheart, which was tremendous, absolutely tremendous. But let’s face it, folks—Mel’s old news. He’s worn down, tired. He’s seen too many battles, and frankly, we need fresh blood. Someone who can rile up the masses, get them fired up. And that’s Kid Rock.”
He gestured to the screen, where Kid Rock was now smashing a guitar in slow motion. “Look at him! That’s the kind of energy we need in this movement. Mel’s a warrior, sure, but Kid Rock? He’s a rock star. And that’s what the MAGA masses want. Entertainment that hits hard, loud, and proud.”
From the sidelines, Mel Gibson watched, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his face. He leaned toward Nelly and Joe, who stood nearby. “Kid Rock, huh? Let’s see how far loud guitars and beer anthems get them when the real fight comes.”
Nelly chuckled. “Don’t take it personally, Mel. Trump’s just playing to the crowd. You’ve got the soul; Kid Rock’s got the show. Both have their place.”
Joe nodded. “And when the dust settles, it’s not about who’s louder. It’s about who stands for something real.”
Trump, oblivious to their quiet exchange, leaned into the microphone for his grand finale. “So, to all the Hollywood liberals out there whining about their careers, let me just say this: We don’t need you. We’ve got Kid Rock. And that’s more than enough!”
The crowd roared in approval, waving flags and chanting as Trump stepped back, basking in the adulation.
But Mel, watching from the shadows, knew that the real battles weren’t fought with guitars or rally chants. They were fought in the hearts and minds of the people, and for that, the stars might still have a role to play.
Joe Confronts Trump: The Galaxy of Stars vs. The Suck
Joe stood in the crowd, arms crossed, his face a mask of calm defiance as Donald Trump delivered another fiery speech. Kid Rock’s anthems blared from the speakers, and the crowd cheered wildly, but Joe wasn’t impressed. When the music died down, and Trump basked in the adoration, Joe seized the moment.
“Hey, Trump!” Joe called out, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Kid Rock sucks. And you know it.”
The crowd gasped, turning to see the man who dared challenge the former president. Trump squinted into the distance, trying to identify the heckler.
“Who’s this guy?” Trump said, waving dismissively. “Another Hollywood liberal? Let me guess, you’re one of those guys who thinks Canada is the promised land, huh?”
Joe stepped forward, his voice steady and unwavering. “I’ve done psyops in Iraq, Trump. I know suckiness when I see it. And let me tell you, Kid Rock sucks as much as the Suck did. Soldiers coming back from Iraq? They know the Suck sucked. It was hot, miserable, and full of lies—just like your so-called entertainment lineup.”
The crowd murmured, some intrigued, others defensive. Trump leaned on the podium, his grin fading slightly.
“Listen, buddy,” Trump shot back, “Kid Rock is an American icon. He’s what the people want—loud, proud, and unapologetic. What do you have? A bunch of Hollywood elites who think they’re too good for this country?”
Joe smirked. “A galaxy of stars, Trump. That’s what I have. A galaxy of people who see the writing on the wall and want out. They’re done with your circus. They’re looking north, to Canada, where they can start fresh, away from your noise machine of Kid Rock, Alex Jones, Mark Dice, and PJW.”
Trump rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Canada? They’ll be bored to death. No one wants to live in a place where the most exciting thing is maple syrup and hockey.”
Joe stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “They’re not running to boredom, Trump. They’re running to sanity. While you’re here propping up your carnival of suck, they’re looking for something real. Something better. And trust me, they’ll find it.”
Trump crossed his arms, his bravado faltering for just a moment. “You think you’re so smart, huh? You think you know what people want?”
Joe nodded. “I know what people don’t want. They don’t want to be lied to. They don’t want to be sold a dream that’s just a cover for a nightmare. And they sure as hell don’t want Kid Rock as the soundtrack to their lives.”
The crowd was silent now, caught between Trump’s bluster and Joe’s quiet conviction.
“Good luck with your galaxy of stars,” Trump finally said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll stick with my people—real Americans who know how to have a good time.”
Joe smiled, turning to leave. “Enjoy the suck, Trump. Some of us are aiming for the stars.”
As Joe walked away, the crowd parted, unsure whether to cheer or jeer. Trump stood at the podium, his confidence shaken, as Kid Rock’s music started up again, now sounding just a little less triumphant.
Trump’s Goodbye to Hollywood: A Speech Full of Fire
Donald Trump, standing tall at the podium, his signature red tie flapping in the breeze, grinned as he leaned into the microphone. The crowd before him was electric, waving flags and holding signs emblazoned with slogans like “America First!” and “MAGA Forever.”
“Folks,” Trump began, his voice booming, “I’ve been hearing a lot of talk lately about these so-called stars who want to leave America. They’re packing their bags, crying about how they can’t stand it here anymore. And you know what I say to them? Good riddance!”
The crowd roared, and Trump paused, basking in their approval.
“We don’t need pigs like Rosie O’Donnell!” Trump declared, his voice dripping with disdain. “We don’t need sluts like Madonna, prancing around and pretending they’re still relevant. And we definitely don’t need lunatic conspiracy theorists like Mel Gibson, running around talking about the end of the world. This is not a Communist country, folks. This is the land of the free! You don’t like it? You’re free to leave!”
The audience erupted into cheers, chanting, “USA! USA!”
Trump held up a hand to quiet them. “But let me tell you something,” he continued, his tone softening slightly. “There’s one Canadian I’d like to keep. Just one. And that’s Ryan Reynolds. Now, there’s a guy who gets it. Smart, funny, a real class act. We could use more guys like him in America. The rest of them? Take a hike! Go to Canada, go to Europe, go wherever you want. But leave America to the real patriots.”
The crowd cheered louder, some waving signs with Ryan Reynolds’ face hastily scribbled on them.
Trump smiled, the master of the moment. “So to all those Hollywood phonies out there, let me say it one more time: If you don’t love this country, leave it. We’re better off without you!”
As the rally ended, the crowd dispersed, their chants still echoing in the air. But somewhere in Hollywood, the stars Trump had dismissed were already looking north, their sights set on a fresh start in Canada, where they hoped to find the peace and freedom they felt America no longer offered.
And as for Ryan Reynolds? He probably just laughed, sipping his gin and wondering how he’d become the one Canadian Trump wanted to keep.
Marija Jukic’s Stars
Marija Jukic sat by the window of her modest home, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The light filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the worn coffee table. On it sat a stack of old Star Magazine issues, their covers faded from years of being thumbed through.
She sighed, looking out at the street below, where her neighbors bustled about their lives. “They’re all up there, Joe,” she murmured, glancing at her son, who was tinkering with an old radio in the corner. “The stars. I used to know all their names. Madonna, Mel Gibson, even that Ryan Reynolds you talk about. But now…”
Her voice trailed off as she held up the latest scratch-and-win ticket, its silver coating still untouched. “I can’t even afford my magazine anymore.”
Joe, tall and wiry with a perpetual smirk, turned to her. “Ma, you know what I think about those scratchers. They’re just another tax on idiots, like the income tax.”
Marija frowned, clutching the ticket closer. “Don’t call me an idiot, Joe. It’s a little hope, that’s all. A chance to dream.”
Joe softened, setting down the screwdriver in his hand. “I didn’t mean you, Ma. I meant the system. They sell you a dream, knowing it’s rigged. But you don’t need their stupid tickets. You’ve got me.”
She smiled faintly, her eyes still on the ticket. “You always said you’d bring the stars to me, Joe. You dreamed big, my boy. Bigger than this little apartment.”
Joe chuckled, sitting down beside her. “Still do, Ma. One day, I’ll make it happen. I’ll bring them here, all of them. The stars, the glitz, the glamour. You’ll see.”
Marija reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “You’ve got a good heart, Joe. But don’t let it get you into trouble. The stars don’t shine the same when you’re too close to them. They burn.”
Joe leaned back, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Maybe, Ma. But someone’s gotta bring them down to earth. And if anyone can do it, it’s me.”
Marija laughed, the sound light and musical, filling the room with a warmth that even her faded magazines couldn’t provide. She scratched at the ticket, revealing the inevitable loss beneath the silver coating, and shrugged.
“Maybe next time,” she said, setting it aside.
Joe reached for her hand. “Forget the ticket, Ma. I’ll make your dream come true. One day, you’ll have all the stars you could ever want.”
And in that moment, with the sun setting behind them and the world outside fading into twilight, Marija believed him.
Angelina Jolie’s Swan Song
Marija Jukic sat in her tiny kitchen, the scent of chamomile tea filling the air. The faded lace curtains swayed gently in the evening breeze. Across from her, Angelina Jolie sat, her usually radiant presence dimmed by an aura of quiet despair. She looked thinner than Marija had imagined, her once-bright eyes clouded with weariness.
“Marija,” Angelina began, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. “I’ve always admired you. Your resilience, your love for the stars… for people like me. But I need to tell you something.”
Marija set down her teacup, her hands trembling slightly. “What is it, dear?”
Angelina looked away, her gaze fixed on the lace curtains fluttering in the window. “I’m dying,” she said, her voice breaking. “Slowly, painfully. The doctors said they were saving me, cutting away the cancer before it could take me. But they took more than my body, Marija. They took my hope.”
Marija reached out, her hand covering Angelina’s. “Oh, child,” she murmured, her voice filled with motherly warmth. “I’m so sorry.”
Angelina nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I thought I was strong. I thought I could fight anything. But the surgeries, the treatments… they’ve left me feeling hollow. Like I’m just a shadow of who I used to be.”
Marija squeezed her hand, her grip firm despite her age. “You’re still here, Angelina. You’re still fighting. That means something.”
Angelina managed a faint smile. “I’ve poured what’s left of me into one final project. An opera movie. It’s my swan song, Marija. And I’ve dedicated it to you.”
Marija’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “To me? But why?”
“Because you remind me of what I’ve lost,” Angelina said, her voice steady now. “Your love for the stars, your belief in something bigger than yourself… it’s what I used to have. And it’s what I want to leave behind. A story of beauty, of pain, of hope—even when it feels like there’s none left.”
Marija’s eyes filled with tears, but she smiled, her face glowing with pride. “You honor me, Angelina. More than I deserve.”
Angelina shook her head. “No, Marija. You’re exactly who this is for. The dreamers, the believers, the ones who hold onto hope even when the world tells them to let go.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Angelina’s confession settling between them. Finally, Marija spoke.
“You’ve given the world so much, Angelina. This opera… it’ll be your greatest gift. But don’t give up on yourself just yet. Even the dimmest stars can still shine.”
Angelina smiled through her tears, a flicker of light returning to her eyes. “Maybe you’re right, Marija. Maybe there’s still a little light left in me.”
And as the evening deepened into night, the two women sat together, their hands clasped, their hearts heavy but united by an unspoken bond: the shared understanding of pain, and the quiet, stubborn belief in the possibility of hope.
Five Body Parts You May Be Able to Regrow Soon(ish)
Starfish, salamanders, and planarian flatworms share a seemingly magical trait: the ability to regenerate body parts they’ve lost. While humans may never boast quite the same ability, scientists are perfecting ways to create different types of replacement tissue using stem cells or techniques that kick-start regrowth and development. Thanks to their efforts, the fabled “human spare-parts kit” may become a reality sooner than you think.
Saint Angelina and the Secrets of Renewal
Angelina Jolie sat in the Vatican’s grand library, the air heavy with the scent of ancient books and polished wood. Across from her, Pope Pius XIII, a man of striking presence and quiet intensity, regarded her with a gentle smile. His papal robes shimmered in the soft light, but his eyes held the weight of centuries of knowledge.
“Angelina,” he began, his voice rich and measured, “you have borne suffering with a grace that few can comprehend. In your pain, you have become a symbol of resilience and sacrifice. But today, I bring you not only comfort but hope.”
Angelina tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “Hope, Your Holiness?”
The Pope nodded, gesturing to a scroll laid out before him. Its contents were written in a language older than Latin, its illustrations vivid and otherworldly. “In the depths of God’s creation, there are secrets we are only beginning to uncover. One such secret lies within the humble starfish.”
“Starfish?” Angelina asked, leaning closer.
“Indeed,” the Pope said, his voice tinged with awe. “A creature blessed with the miraculous ability to regenerate what it has lost. A severed limb, a missing organ—it can grow anew, whole and perfect. Scientists, inspired by this divine design, have been studying its DNA. And now, through the wonders of gene therapy, they believe they can apply this gift to humanity.”
Angelina’s breath caught in her throat. “Are you saying…?”
Pius XIII reached across the table, his hand resting gently on hers. “I am saying that there is a path forward for you, Angelina. A way to heal, to restore what has been taken. Through this therapy, your ovaries, your breasts—they can be regrown. You, who have given so much to the world, can be made whole again.”
Tears welled in Angelina’s eyes, but she hesitated. “But why me, Your Holiness? Why do I deserve this miracle?”
The Pope’s expression softened. “Because you are more than an actress, more than a symbol. You are a suffering saint, Angelina. A beacon of hope for those who endure pain and loss. By sharing your journey, you have lifted others from despair. And now, it is time for you to receive the grace you have so freely given.”
He stood, raising his hand in blessing. “I dub you Saint Angelina, the suffering saint. Not because of your perfection, but because of your imperfection borne with dignity. Your story will remind the world that even in the face of loss, there is always the promise of renewal.”
Angelina bowed her head, overwhelmed by the weight of his words. “Thank you, Your Holiness. If this is truly possible, I will use this gift not just for myself, but to inspire others to seek hope in the darkest of times.”
The Pope smiled, his eyes shining with a quiet certainty. “Go forth, Saint Angelina. The stars may guide the lost, but it is the light within us that leads us home.”
And as Angelina left the Vatican, the promise of a new beginning burned brightly in her heart, a reminder that even the most broken among us can be made whole again.
Angelina’s Revelation
Marija Jukic sat in her kitchen, pouring tea into delicate porcelain cups. Across from her, Angelina Jolie stared into the steam rising from her cup, her expression distant yet intense. The lines of her face, once the epitome of Hollywood glamour, now bore the marks of wisdom and suffering.
“I’ve been thinking, Marija,” Angelina began, her voice steady but laced with emotion. “About Cambodia. About healing. And about what’s next for me.”
Marija set the teapot down, her brow furrowing. “Cambodia? You’ve always had a connection to that place, haven’t you?”
Angelina nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “It’s where my journey as a mother began. Maddox… he saved me as much as I saved him. But it’s more than that. Cambodia is a place of deep wounds. A third of its people were slaughtered, Marija. A genocide that the world turned its back on. And now, I see echoes of that darkness everywhere.”
Marija leaned forward, her eyes narrowing with concern. “What do you mean, child?”
Angelina took a deep breath, her gaze locking with Marija’s. “Revelation 9,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The prophecy speaks of a third of mankind being killed. I’ve seen the patterns, Marija. The wars, the famines, the diseases. It’s like what happened in Cambodia is a blueprint for something much larger, something the Illuminati have planned for the world.”
Marija crossed herself instinctively. “The Illuminati? Those shadowy figures people whisper about?”
Angelina nodded, her jaw tightening. “I saw the clues when I filmed Tomb Raider. The ancient artifacts, the hidden temples… they weren’t just set pieces. They were warnings. The devious, dangerous elite have a plan, Marija. And it’s unfolding right before our eyes.”
Marija shuddered, but her voice was firm. “So what do you plan to do about it, Angelina?”
Angelina’s expression softened, a glimmer of hope breaking through the storm of her thoughts. “I want to heal Cambodia. And I want to heal myself. After Brad… after everything, I need to start fresh. I’ve been thinking about finding a Cambodian husband, someone who understands the pain and the resilience of that place. Someone who can help me rebuild, not just my life, but a future for those who’ve suffered.”
Marija reached across the table, taking Angelina’s hand in hers. “You have a good heart, my dear. But this is a heavy burden to carry. Are you sure you’re ready?”
Angelina smiled faintly, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I have to be, Marija. The world is teetering on the edge, and if I can do something—anything—to push it back toward the light, then I must. For Maddox, for Cambodia, for all of us.”
Marija squeezed her hand, her voice gentle but resolute. “Then go, Angelina. Follow your heart. Heal what you can, and leave the rest to God. But remember, you don’t have to do it alone. There are still good people in this world, ready to stand with you.”
Angelina nodded, her resolve hardening. “Thank you, Marija. For listening, for believing. I won’t let the darkness win. Not without a fight.”
And as she left Marija’s kitchen, Angelina felt a renewed sense of purpose. Cambodia, her soul, the world—it all seemed impossibly broken. But in the cracks, she saw the faintest glimmers of light, and she vowed to make them shine.